Paved with Good Intentions
by Iced Blood
Summary: Part 29: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men...never mind, this is one of the worst laid schemes ever, regardless of species. That's probably what makes it so dangerous, for pretty much everybody involved.
1. Good Intentions

_**This was a sudden idea, inspired by the quotation you will see following this notice, and I have decided to turn this into a collection of sorts, if my inspiration continues. My aim here is to shed as much light on the characters of Seto and Mokuba Kaiba, and of their interactions with any number of the other members of the Yu-Gi-Oh family, as I can. Each of these stories, as I have them currently planned, will be self-contained, but will also be a part of their own particular version of the universe; that is to say, they are connected, yet they are not.**_

_**I have attempted a collection of this sort twice, but only the first—"Best I Am," from Bleach—has been successful. I hope that this becomes the second success, and that you—whomever my audience might be—will find it enjoyable. **_

_**That's enough for now, I think. Let us continue, shall we?**_

* * *

**1.  
**

* * *

It was his eyes.

More than anything else about him, she thought, it was his eyes that she found most unnerving, most intimidating.

Joanna Lorwell had moved to Domino City four years prior, at the insistence of her sister, and one of the first things she had learned about it was that it was _big. _Having never lived in a "big city" before, she had found it both intimidating and exhilarating.

The first thing Jennie had done when Joanna had moved was to act as her private tour guide, showing her the ropes: there was the huge, almost ostentatiously extravagant amusement park, called "Eyes of Wonder". There was the local community college, Westridge, home to the most celebrated planetarium in the state of California. There was a mall the likes of which Joanna had never known could exist, so mind-bogglingly huge it felt like its own city in and of itself.

And, of course, there was the orphanage. This had been the place Jennie had been most excited to show her big sister, because it was there that she worked. It had once been just the same as any other orphanage; nothing special about it. But just before Jennie had begun working there, the place had undergone a transformation. Rebuilt from the ground up, it was now closer to a resort than anything else; a library, a pool, a gym, a cafeteria with better food than most restaurants, and perhaps most remarkably, a private bedroom for each child, with separate quarters on the top floor for the staff.

"It's _beautiful, _Jo," Jennie had told her over the phone when first she'd gotten the job. "This place makes me wish _I _were an orphan! And everyone's so wonderful. It's like a vacation here."

The Domino Children's Home had once been a run-of-the-mill establishment, but was now heralded as the perfect example of just what an orphanage should be.

And here, sitting in front of her, was the man responsible for all of that. The single man who had personally designed every ride in that amusement park; the man who had funded the best science department of almost any school in the country; the man who had hand-picked every staff member of the orphanage he had rebuilt.

But all Joanna could think now was that he was frightening.

She should have been honored; she should have been flattered. She should have wanted to shake his hand – to hug him, even! – for all that he had done for her city, for _their _city. But Joanna wanted only for him to leave as soon as humanly possible before she bolted from the room herself.

This man's full name was Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba (although not many knew that) and Joanna was his brother's seventh-grade English teacher. She had called Seto here, to her classroom at East Rivers Middle School, personally. Seto was the only man Mokuba ever spoke about in reference to his parents, and Joanna hadn't dared risk asking after his mother and father for this meeting.

She was glad now that she had decided to be cautious; now she knew – upon a bit of research – that the reason Seto Kaiba had put so much time, effort, and funding into the Domino Children's Home was because he and Mokuba had once taken up residence there; their parents had been dead for over a decade.

In her research, Joanna had come across something else. She had never been able to understand why the public opinion of the great Master Kaiba of the Kaiba Electronic Gaming Corporation was so universally negative. She had only ever heard of his achievements and of what he had done for his community; and when she had found that she would be teaching such a great man's little brother in her own class, she had been excited.

Young Mokuba had been shocked and delighted when he'd discovered that Joanna admired Seto, and had assured her that he was wonderful. And despite the seriousness of this meeting, she had been secretly giddy about it.

But now she understood.

Those eyes...

It wasn't that they looked particularly dangerous, or violent. It wasn't that he looked angry, or frustrated, or even impatient (despite the fact that he had been here, leaning against one of the students' desks, for three full minutes and she hadn't said a word yet).

He looked..._aware._

He was paying complete and total attention to her, as if this meeting were a matter of such grave importance that absolutely nothing mattered outside of it.

Joanna had been in the spotlight to some degree for most of her life, having found that she much enjoyed having others' eyes on her. But there was just something about the cold severity of Seto Kaiba's glinting cobalt stare that made her nervous.

Aware for the first time that he _was _growing impatient (it was subtle; just a faint twitch of his statuesque face to betray it), Joanna quickly gathered her thoughts and cleared her throat.

"P-Pardon me, Mister Kaiba," she said, standing up from her chair. "I understand that you are Mokuba's legal guardian, so I was right in bringing this to your attention?"

"Yes," he said. His voice was curt, sharp, with no pretense of anything but business. Even the twitch of impatience was gone. He was simply stone.

"Well..." she began, unable to think quite properly with his eyes upon her (which, she would find out later, was a problem for most people), "...Mokuba is a fine student. He does his work well, he's dedicated, and he hasn't missed a single assignment so far. So...I was especially surprised that he would do something like this."

She took a few sheets of paper from the bag on her desk and slid them over toward him. Seto took them without a word, and began to read them so quickly that Joanna blinked in surprise.

"I assigned a book report over the two-week break recently?" she said when she had recovered. "Those are two of them: your brother's and Connor Brinkley's."

Seto glanced up at her and raised a thin eyebrow. "...Mokuba wrote both of these," he said quickly, handing the essays back.

"You...knew about it?"

Seto shook his head. "No. But it's obvious."

Joanna cleared her throat again, sitting down on her chair as an excuse to move. "Yes, well...you're right. I suspected. Connor isn't very good at essays, you see, so when he turned this in, I knew it wasn't his work."

Seto crossed his arms.

"When I asked Mokuba, he denied it. He said he had no idea what I was talking about. But Connor eventually told me the truth, and...well, I thought you should know about this."

At this last bit of information, Joanna thought she saw the ghost of a smile cross the man's lips, as if he were pleased. But before she could even be certain she had seen it, his face was completely impassive again.

He regarded her silently for some time, arms still crossed, before finally asking:

"What score did he receive?"

Joanna blinked.

Of all the questions he might have asked, this was one she had never thought of. She had expected him to be angry, probably at _her _for daring to imply that his brother was helping someone cheat. She had expected him to be defensive, or shocked, or if she were extremely lucky, apologetic.

"...E-Excuse me?"

Seto did not move a muscle. He repeated, "What score did he receive?"

"I...I don't understand the relevance of...why would you...what...? I gave him a zero, Mister Kaiba. Both of them. I don't allow this sort of conduct in my class."

But Seto did not accept that answer.

"What score..." he said, as if speaking to a slow-witted child, "did my brother...receive...?"

It wasn't a threat, but it almost sounded like one. Joanna couldn't for the life of her understand why the question mattered, but eventually gave up and said,

"...One hundred. On both of them. I'd probably have given him extra credit, actually. He's a gifted boy, your brother, and I'm sorry to have to do this to him. But Mister Kaiba, I hardly see why that matters to you."

She thought she saw a hint of mockery on his face now, but Seto didn't say anything. He simply nodded, and turned to leave. Joanna felt compelled to stand again. "Mister Kaiba, this is a very serious matter! You're treating this too lig—"

Then he looked at her, and the words died in her throat.

"You have done your part in this, Miss Lorwell," Seto said. "I will deal with Mokuba's misconduct. This will not be a concern of yours unless I fail."

Again, Joanna blinked. "I...I'm not quite sure...what you..."

"Do not concern yourself," he said. "There is no need."

And he left the room.

And Joanna Lorwell suddenly felt as if _she _were the one taking matters too lightly.

* * *

**2.  
**

* * *

Mokuba thought that one of the biggest reasons that Connor Brinkley was his friend was because, out of all the students of his English class, he thought that Connor was the only one with the decency to feel bad about what had happened with their book reports.

"I'm sorry, bro," Connor had said. "Really. I...I didn't think this'd happen. But...thanks for sticking up for me."

"It's all right," Mokuba assured him. "No big deal, really. We made a mistake. It's not like we're gonna get arrested or something."

He smiled, which Connor seemed to appreciate, but inwardly Mokuba was close to panicking. He didn't have the faintest clue when Miss Lorwell would tell Seto about what had happened, but when she did...well, he didn't want to think about it.

He'd known it was stupid, but Connor had seemed so desperate that Mokuba hadn't been able to help it. He couldn't just do nothing, and...well, before he knew it, he'd offered to just write Connor's report for him.

"Really?" Connor had cried, looking like he'd just realized Christmas was coming. "Oh, man, you're _awesome! _You ever need a favor, you just tell me. _Anything._ Oh, thanks, Mokuba, you're the best friend _ever!"_

They had met in the beginning of the year, having been seated next to each other. It wasn't often that people saw Mokuba for anything but his brother's...brother. It was so rare to have someone talk to _him _without any ulterior motives that Mokuba had latched onto Connor with a fervency that bordered on fanatical. And he hadn't had the heart to call it off after seeing his new friend so happy.

Mokuba knew his brother would hit the roof. Seto didn't believe in charity as a rule (although he had given his fair share of donations, and some – like the orphanage – hadn't been just for publicity purposes); something like this would fry him.

"Hey...you a'right, Mokuba?"

Jumping a bit, Mokuba turned and was about to answer, until he happened to look up at the front porch of Connor's home, to which they'd been heading since leaving school.

Seto was standing there, arms crossed, and leaning against the wall beside the front door.

Mokuba went pale as a sheet.

Connor's mouth fell open.

"Good afternoon, boys," Seto said shortly. "How was school?"

* * *

**3.  
**

* * *

"N-Niisama!"

Seto wore his usual poker face, making it hard to discern anything about his mood; hard for normal people, anyway.

Mokuba suddenly found that his tongue had forgotten the proper motions to produce coherent speech, and his legs weren't faring too well, either. He felt shaky, and was torn between running away and begging for mercy.

But then he realized his brother wasn't looking at him.

Seto's eyes were centered on Connor.

"Connor Brinkley," Seto said, and it wasn't a question. Connor nodded, anyway. Responding to his friend's terror, Connor looked like he had just been sentenced to be hanged, and Mokuba didn't think he felt any better for not being in the line of fire just yet.

"Y-Yes...sir?"

"Your English instructor has informed me that you turned in an essay written by my brother. I don't think I need to explain my presence here any more elaborately than that."

Connor flinched. "Uh...n-no, sir. I...I u-understand."

"You know the severity of what you have done."

Another flinch, and he lowered his head, his blond hair covering his eyes, as if hoping he could escape Seto's stare. He nodded. "Y-Yeah. It was...it was dumb, I know. I just...I...I don't know. I was stupid."

"You took advantage of a friend's generosity."

Connor nodded.

"You cost that friend what would have been a perfect score because you didn't do your own work, choosing instead to cheat."

Mokuba frowned, but said nothing. He didn't dare.

"P-Perfect score?" Connor looked up, looking surprised and newly guilty. "He...he got a..."

"Miss Lorwell informed me that she might have given him extra credit, had this not happened. Because it did, she is giving both of you a zero for the project. You've tarnished your friend's grade and your own, out of simple laziness."

Mokuba couldn't help but notice that Seto kept referring to him as "your friend" instead of "my brother," and thought he understood why.

"I...I know. I know I did. I should have...I should have...ah, jeez, I..."

"Mokuba has extended a friendly hand to you, Connor Brinkley," Seto said. "He has been faithful and supportive. You took advantage of him. You know this, do you not?"

"...I do."

"You let him shoulder the burden that you were responsible for, and it cost you both. That is not only dishonest. It is traitorous."

Connor flinched yet again at that last, damning word. Mokuba suddenly felt an urge to defend him, but one look at his brother's face stopped him short.

Seto moved forward, stepping between the pair and stopping with his back to them. "You have twenty-four hours to explain this to your parents, Connor. I suggest you do so, before Miss Lorwell does it for you."

He glanced at Mokuba.

"I'll be back at five-thirty."

And that was all he would say.

Mokuba stared after him as he walked to his car.

* * *

**4.  
**

* * *

"...Why did you give _him_ the lecture?" Mokuba asked Seto that evening on the way home. "Why not me?"

Seto didn't answer for a long moment.

He kept his eyes straight ahead, and Mokuba began to wonder if he had even heard. But then he said, "Because, Mokuba, you can recover from this easily. He cannot."

"He's not stupid, Niisama," Mokuba said, voice sharper than usual.

"I never claimed that he was," Seto replied. "But if he was desperate enough to accept the assistance you extended to him, then it is obvious to me that he is not nearly as gifted as you are. I don't need to lecture you, Mokuba. You know what you did. You did him a disservice just as much as he did you."

"I just wanted to..."

"I know," Seto said, and his voice was soft. "He's your friend. You wanted to help him, and there is nothing wrong in that. But you allowed him to use you as a crutch. He wouldn't have learned anything from that except how to continue to exploit."

"He wasn't _exploiting _me, he—"

"Yes, Mokuba, he was. Don't interrupt me."

Mokuba flinched, and realized that he hadn't quite gotten off the hook. He lowered his eyes. "Yes, Niisama. Sorry, Niisama."

"Help him to understand, help him to succeed. These are things a friend should do, Mokuba. What you did was gave him an excuse. You had good intentions, but that does not matter now, does it? It did neither of you any good, did it?"

"...No."

"You are just as guilty in extending the offer as Connor was in accepting it."

Mokuba hung his head.

Seto stopped at a red light and looked at him. Putting a hand on his brother's shoulder, he said, "I'm disappointed, but I understand. You wanted to do a good thing. But I hope _you _understand that you weren't doing him any favors. You were crippling him. _Do_ you understand, Mokuba?"

Mokuba nodded miserably.

Seto ruffled the boy's hair. "Good. You'll have a tough time making up for this, but I know you can do it."

Mokuba nodded again, and when he finally looked up, he realized that Seto was smiling. Glancing out the windshield, he further realized that they were pulling into the parking lot of a movie theater.

Mokuba stared. "Wha...huh?"

"You may have broken the rules and lost any points you might have received," Seto said, amusement flashing in his eyes, "but you did write two A-grade essays. Now come on. We'd better be quick if you want to pick out anything to eat before the showing."

Mokuba continued to stare.

And when he got out of the car, he hugged his brother tight enough to knock the air straight out of him.

* * *

**5.  
**

* * *

"I'm not sure, Jennie," Joanna said from the living room as her sister scrounged about the kitchen for something to eat. "He...he kind of scares me, honestly."

"Scares you?" Jennie laughed. "That man scares _everybody! _He's _supposed_ to scare people! He's a businessman. And anyway, that has nothing to do with anything. You met Seto Kaiba! You know how many people in this city pay thousands just to do that?"

"Is he really _that _popular?"

Jennie laughed harder. "The man's an icon! He took over his father's business when he was fifteen! He's rich, young, and cute...if you can get past the whole scary thing. And besides, he gave me a job."

Joanna chuckled. "I suppose. But I'm not sure if he really cared all that much. I mean, he...he listened, and he didn't try to deflect or anything like some parents do, but...I dunno."

"Don't sweat it," Jennie admonished as she came back into the living room and handed her sister a sandwich. "You said it yourself; the kid's your best student. Things'll work out. Besides, anybody who knows anything about Seto Kaiba will tell you he takes _everything _about his brother seriously."

Joanna quirked an eyebrow, "Are you a stalker?"

"No. I just read. You know that boy's been kidnapped, like, four times? Last time it happened, I hear Kaiba beat the guy into a coma. Got off, though. Not surprised. Who'd convict him, I mean, really?"

"Hmmm..."

The doorbell rang, and Joanna got up to answer it. "I suppose I'm thinking too much on this, but...I just don't think he..."

She stopped.

Nobody was at the door, but there was an envelope on the porch. She picked it up, took out the contents, and found a few sheets of paper, aptly titled "Book Report," with Connor Brinkley's name scrawled messily at the top of the first page, and the current date beneath it.

Joanna blinked several times.

"What was that?" Jennie asked. "You don't think he...what?"

Joanna turned.

"I...think I might have misjudged him."

Jennie laughed.

"Everybody does."

* * *

**END  
**

* * *

_**You may have noticed by now that the majority of my work with Seto focuses on his parenting. This is an important part of him - perhaps **_**the _important part of him - as evidenced by something very particular. At the end of the two-episode duel between Seto and Pegasus during the Duelist Kingdom storyline, I found the expression on Seto's face when he discovered that he'd lost to be very powerful and significant. This was the first episode of the anime that I saw. Later, when I watched the duel between Seto and Yami on Pegasus's balcony, the feeling that that particular facial expression was touched on more metaphorically, with the hallucination Seto has wherein Mokuba is sinking into the dying body of his Ultimate Dragon, crying out for help. And again, his facial expression is particularly powerful. _**

_**This, and any number of other scenes, has led most of us (I hope) to understand that Mokuba is the most important person in his life. The dub even clarifies this when Seto tells Yugi at the end of Duelist Kingdom that, "He means everything to me." Thus, I am convinced that Seto is especially serious about raising Mokuba right. This first portion of my new collection (again, I hope) shows a part of that, and will likely set the running theme. **_

_**Those of you who might have read "Earning an Accolade" may remember that I work under the assumption that Seto's surname before his adoption was Yagami. This, of course, came from his father, Kohaku (yes, a nod to Inuyasha, I confess). His mother's name, I have further assumed, was Sasaki Yuki, before she married Kohaku. Thus, having decided not to give Seto a middle name, I have given his full name as Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba. **_

_**I have further assumed, as I have in all of my Yu-Gi-Oh work, that Domino City is in the state of California, in the United States of America, instead of in Japan where it is originally. This is for two reasons: one, the dub gives credence to this, and I watched the dub long before I discovered the original Japanese version, and two, I live in California. This makes it a bit easier for me to put this city into a realistic context.**_

**_I think I've ranted long enough for now. I'll see you soon. I hope you enjoyed this introductory chapter._**


	2. To Shoulder the Burden

_**This is a revised edition of the chapter, and thus I am revising the author's notes. This was inspired by something very simple: while on a walk, I saw a small child in a stroller. This child was not crying, nor was I at a grocery store, but the image stayed in my head. Thus, this chapter was born. It was one of my first attempts to write Seto's, and Mokuba's, biological father as an actual character instead of an intangible presence in a past we've never seen before. Yagami Kohaku—originally introduced alongside his wife, Yuki, in an earlier story, "Earning and Accolade"—is a sad figure, and I think this chapter shows that decently clearly.**_

_**For those of you who have read this chapter before, every scene but the last is pretty much the same. It's the final scene that's important. You will remember that I claimed the final scene of the original chapter was reverse foreshadowing, and in a way, it still is. My reason for changing this scene is simple: when I began writing the storyline that this scene alludes to, I found that it no longer worked. The details no longer fit. So, instead, I wrote a scene that fits better with the main theme of this chapter, and perhaps the story as a whole. **_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

They weren't halfway through the parking lot before Mokuba started crying.

It was sudden, brought on by nothing in particular, and Seto—who was pushing his brother's stroller—jumped. The jolt caused by that jump only served to intensify the cranky toddler's cries; Seto flinched guiltily and quickly rushed around to kneel in front of Mokuba's increasingly reddening face.

"I'm sorry I startled you, Mokie," the older boy whispered gently, trying to pat Mokuba's head. He wanted no part of it, and flung himself away from his sibling's touch with a sharp, defiant whine.

"C'mon, little guy...shhh...sh-sh-sh. Don't cry, Mokie. It's okay. Are you thirsty? Hm? Is Mokie thirsty?"

"Nnyah!" Mokuba replied.

As Seto continued to try to placate his squalling brother, Kohaku—who was holding their groceries—simply watched. There was a tortured, helpless expression on his weathered, stubble-ridden face, but he made no move to help.

Yagami Kohaku was a broken man, and Seto was more than smart enough to know it. There was no use asking his father to help him with Mokuba; he couldn't. It always made him haggard and miserable—more so than usual.

"I want to love him," Seto had heard Kohaku tell a coworker one night. "God, I want to. He's the last part of...of...I _should _love him. I swore to myself that I would. But...I can't. Damn me to _fucking _hell, I just can't."

"You can't force yourself to feel something you don't," the coworker had replied, and Kohaku's head had snapped upward, painful in its severity, and his eyes flashed with a flicker of the indignant, insulted fury that would one day shape his firstborn's entire existence.

"He's my _son, _Hank! He's my child! Mokuba needs love more than anything else right now, and I'm so _damned _useless that I can't even fake it!"

Seto had felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to cry. To run to his father and hug him. To tell the man his mother had loved that he didn't have to worry anymore.

But he stayed perfectly still, thin hands fisted at his sides, and he did not cry.

"C'mon, Mokie," Seto said now, almost begged, as he tried to coax his brother to take the cup in his hand. "It's okay, Mokie, shhh...see? There's your juice. Want your juice?"

Mokuba continued to scream.

Kohaku continued to watch.

And Seto did not cry.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

By the time Seto finally figured out what it was that his baby brother wanted, his shirt and vest were soaked with apple juice. His face was almost as red as Mokuba's, having realized that people all around the parking lot had stopped on the way to their vehicles to stare at them.

"Shameless spectacle," grunted a voice he remembered from somewhere, and he frowned.

"Oh, hush! The poor boy's trying!"

"Why won't the father _do_ anything about that brat?"

Seto's eyes went wide, almost feverish, whirling toward the sound of the voice like a coiled viper. The speaker—a tall, spindly woman with skin too taught and too tan—flinched, realizing that she had been heard. "If you would kindly _shut it, _please?" Seto said, so coldly polite that the woman forgot to be angry. "I've seen you with your own children once before, and they are hardly less of a 'spectacle' than my brother, who—might I add—at least waited until we were _out _of the store before acting like a _brat, _as you so kindly call him_. _So unless you enjoy being a hypocrite, I'd suggest keeping your unwanted commentary to yourself."

The spindly woman went red, looking for a moment like Mokuba, but her companion laughed. A few others joined in, and one man even flashed Seto a thumbs-up.

The matter seemingly dealt with, Seto turned his attention back to his still-bawling sibling, who was now wriggling maniacally against his stroller's restraints.

"Ah'wa ow!" he cried.

Seto raised an eyebrow. "Hm?" he asked.

"Ow! Ah'wa ow!"

"Ow? Are you hurt, Mokie? Show me."

_"No!" _the toddler snapped, surprisingly clearly. "Ow! Ah'wa _ow! _Wemmah ow!"

"Oh..." Seto murmured, suddenly understanding. "You want _out..._is that it, Mokie? You want out?"

"Ah'wa ow, ah'wa ow!"

Seto smiled. "Okay, okay, Mokie. C'mon."

Seto proceeded to struggle with the seatbelt holding his brother in place while Mokuba continued to convulse and wiggle as if he were being strapped into an electric chair. When he finally managed to fight his way out of said electric chair's clutches and had clambered into his brother's arms, Mokuba's crying and screaming shifted instantly to a fit of giggles.

Seto smiled again despite himself and ruffled the mop of messy black hair. "There you go, little guy. All better?"

"Ah 'erst-ee," Mokuba declared, and Seto resisted the urge to smack his forehead. Instead, he stepped calmly over to the diaper bag hanging on the back of Mokuba's stroller and fished out another drink.

As Kohaku deposited their groceries into the now-empty seat and began to push, Seto saw a smile on his beaten, sunburned face. It ached with sadness.

Seto forced himself to smile for his father.

They walked home in silence.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

"He's going to die of exhaustion at this rate."

The tone was soft, but tinged with faint reproach. Yagami Kohaku didn't respond, staring unseeingly at the television as his companion nursed a mug of coffee.

"...He can handle it."

"But he shouldn't _have _to, Ko!" Valery Hitcher snapped irritably. She was the Yagamis' neighbor, and the woman who most often checked in on Seto and Mokuba when their father was working. "For God's sake, the boy's only ten! Mokuba _isn't _his responsibility; he's _yours."_

Kohaku turned his exhausted face to regard her incredulously.

Valery didn't back down. "Like it or not, Ko, you and Yuki decided to keep him, and don't you _dare _blame Seto for that. Maybe it _would _have been better for all of you if she'd had an abortion. She would probably still be here. But she didn't. Yuki wouldn't have allowed it unless she had _known _she was going to die if she went through with it, and you know she would never have been one-hundred-percent convinced."

Kohaku flinched violently at the mention of his wife, but he didn't say anything. He turned his gaze back to the screen across the room from him.

"You're not a bad man," Valery said gently. "You have a heart when you want to acknowledge it. Yuki knew it, and that's why she married you. But what you're doing to Seto...it's inexcusable. This _isn't _about _you, _Ko, it's about your sons. They deserve better than this and you know it just as well as I do. It _isn't _their fault that she's gone, and if you still love _her_ at all, you'll stop blaming them."

"I'm _not _blaming the..."

But he stopped.

Staring at the woman who had been such a good friend when he had been Sasaki Yuki's husband, and the only one who remained his friend now that he wasn't, Kohaku realized he couldn't finish that sentence.

He lowered his head.

And Kohaku, not nearly as strong as the son who looked so much like him, cried.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Seto didn't believe in complaining.

"Complaining won't do you any good," his mother had told him. "If you don't like doing something, don't do it. And if you must do it, then do it as quickly and efficiently as possible so that you don't have to do it again."

He was sure that other people had heard that same advice from their mothers, or their fathers, but Seto was one of the select few who followed it. And now that Mokuba was here, there were plenty of things he did not like doing, that he did as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Seto did not flinch, or show disgust, or say a single word as he changed his baby brother's diaper. He simply did it, removing the old one with swift, sure, practiced movements, and setting about cleaning the mess. He didn't bat an eye.

"Ewww!" Mokuba laughed, tiny little legs kicking in the air as he watched his brother. Seto said nothing. "Icky!" he added. "Icky, bubba! Icky-icky!"

"Yes, Mokie," Seto murmured finally, once Mokuba was clean, lifting the boy up and dressing him in a set of pajamas. "Icky."

He set the boy down and held the mess, bundled in wipes so that it was at least somewhat sanitary, out to him. "Now go throw the icky away, little guy. C'mon. You know where the garbage is."

Mokuba held his dirty diaper out in front of him, continuing to lament about how "ewww" it was, as he shuffled uncertainly over to the trash bin. Once finished, he made his way laboriously back to Seto and held up his tiny arms, informing "bubba" that "Ah di'yit. Ah di'yit."

Seto picked the younger boy up and smiled. "Good job, Mokie. You did it. Now, do you know what time it is, little guy? Hm?"

"...'Oo-kee tie?" Mokuba asked hopefully.

Seto smiled. "No, Mokie. Not cookie time. Bedtime."

"Be'tie? Be'tie, bubba?"

Seto nodded. "Yes, Mokie. Bedtime. Now come on."

"Be'tie!"

* * *

**5.**

* * *

"'...and the big, bad dragon flew away. The princess came back to her castle and everybody had a big party, with cookies and apple juice for everybody. And the princess told her hero that she was so proud that he was her friend, and they lived in the castle together, with no more dragons, forever.'"

Mokuba was straining to keep his eyes open, but he remained adamant in staying up. He said, "Nu'stowy! Nu'stowy!"

"No, no. That's all for now, Mokie. Bedtime."

Seto tucked his baby brother in, leaned down to kiss his forehead (which caused a giggle), and lifted up the side of his crib until it locked with a faint click.

"Go to sleep, now, little one," Seto said softly. "Bye-bye. I'll see you tomorrow, 'kay?"

"A'mowwow, bubba," Mokuba said, and smiled as Seto turned out the light and left the room. "Ah'wuh yoo."

"I love you, too, Mokie."

As he quietly shut his brother's bedroom door, Seto leaned against it and wondered if he had just now realized _exactly _how tired a person could be. His legs shook, but there was enough steel in him (even at ten years old) that he refused to let himself collapse. And, miraculously, his body listened.

He began to walk to his own bedroom, remembering with a pang that he had a report due in two days, but knowing that it would be impossible to do anything now except fall onto his bed.

He passed his father in the hall, who simply stood there and watched him stumble forward. Seto's thin face was so stone-set that it seemed like he was waging a war with sleep and was determined only to surrender on his own terms, and he couldn't think of a thing to say to the man that made _his _tiredness seem like a pittance.

But Kohaku did.

As Seto fell against his door and fumbled with the knob, the tall man with dark brown hair and gray eyes that lived with him but felt like a stranger said, softly and racked with more pain than should have ever been allowed to exist,

"...I'm sorry."

* * *

**6.**

* * *

September fifteenth, at midnight seven years later, in the impeccable, untouchable silence of the Kaiba Mansion, the man Yagami Seto had become rose smoothly to his feet. And as he turned to the doorway of his office, he thought of his father. That final apology.

He thought of what had almost happened, six nights ago, and of what it would have done to him if it had. Seto Kaiba finally thought that he understood why Kohaku had been so desperately tired that the only way out was that final sleep, covered by a blanket of earth.

Sometime during that night, after Seto passed his father in the hall of their old home and could think of nothing to say, Yagami Kohaku had died.

A tragic accident, it had been called, but Seto Kaiba did not kid himself; his father had escaped. Yagami Kohaku had had enough, had finally given up, and he had escaped...in the only way he knew how.

And at his funeral, Seto did not cry.

And still. he did not cry—he refused to cry—as he walked down the hall of his home, still dressed in the suit he had picked out that morning before work, as he closed his eyes and said for the first time,

"I forgive you."

One week ago marked the fourth time that the boy once known as Yagami Mokuba had been abducted, and the second time that it had been done by the man called Saruwatari, who had, at one time, been Mokuba's own bodyguard. It was the first time, however, that Seto had been faced with the real, terrifying thought of that boy, that baby boy that he had raised himself, dying before his eyes.

In a third "tragic accident."

Four times, in four years. Ever since he had taken on the mantle of "Kaiba-sama," the leader of the Kaiba Corporation—the largest commercial entity in Domino City, California—and not once in the previous three attempts had he ever truly felt worried. Not in this way. Still haunted, still cold, still afraid; he could not shake the feeling of helplessness that had kept a stranglehold on him for the past six days. And the only real solace he had was that it was through that helplessness that he finally reached understanding.

Because it finally made sense.

He stepped into the bedroom that had once been his own, and felt the chill of haunting memory leave him. Lying there, innocent and gentle and safe, was his answer. He sat, and he watched, and he smiled. Yes, this was the answer. This was the answer to everything.

Mokuba was turned away from him, huddled in the fetal position, maintaining a vice-grip on his blanket, and Seto saw that the boy was shaking. He reached out, putting a gentle hand on his brother's back, and Mokuba jumped. He whirled, crying out in surprise, and his eyes sprang open and he stared at the ceiling.

"Shhh…" Seto whispered, and the fear in Mokuba's eyes abated slightly. The boy turned, and saw his brother, and smiled shakily. "It's all right, little one," Seto whispered, smiling himself. "It's just me."

"Niisama," Mokuba said softly, and took hold of his brother's hand.

This was the answer.

He thought of his father, and pitied him; pitied that the man who had sired them both, who'd had the chance to know this gentle, sweet child, to know and love him, but had not known how. How wrong that seemed, and how sad.

"Bad dream?" Seto asked.

Mokuba nodded.

Seto held out his arms, and Mokuba's smile widened. The boy climbed into his brother's lap and hugged him, resting his head on Seto's shoulder. Seto rubbed his brother's back, rocking gently, and there were never any thoughts of it being juvenile. There were never any thoughts of Mokuba being a baby for finding comfort in it.

This was the answer to everything.

"Feel better, kiddo?"

Mokuba nodded.

Seto's smile widened as he tightened his grip on his brother. "Good."

There was a special sort of peacefulness that settled over them both. And Seto had to wonder _why _his father had never been able to do this. Why such a thing had been so beyond him. He knew, in an analytical sense, why. And now, he finally understood. But at the same time, he didn't.

"Niisama…?"

Seto responded with a murmur that wasn't quite a word.

"Can I sleep here? It's comf'ble…"

Seto chuckled. "Well...my legs might go numb after a while, kid. I'll tell you what…"

He lifted Mokuba easily as he stood, and carried him out of the room. Mokuba gave a weak protest that they both knew he didn't mean as Seto carried his brother down the hall, toward his own room. And as he walked, he still thought of his father. And how Yagami Kohaku had left every bit of raising Mokuba to his son, and never once managed to take part in it himself.

And Seto Kaiba smiled.

_Thank you._

* * *

**END**


	3. Lullaby

_**So this collection of oneshots has instead become a continual plot. I'm not sure when it happened, but there you go. I will be following a rather consistent time-line, here. I may skip around on occasion, but it won't be like I'd planned originally. **_

_**This chapter is a follow-up to Part One, and sets up the first major "arc" of the story. Consider it something of a prologue, if you will. I introduce a couple new characters, here, along with a return of Connor Brinkley, who I've become rather fond of as things develop. I hope you are, too, because he'll be here for a while.**_

_**Beware: there be fluff ahead...and an angry threat or two. 'Cuz you know, this is Seto Kaiba we're talking about, now, isn't it? This should be fun. Enjoy.**_

* * *

**1.  
**

* * *

His knock was the same as the rest of him.

Sharp, quick, authoritative. Enid Brinkley knew who it was before she even got up from the couch. She had never met Seto Kaiba before, and unlike the vast majority of other residents of Domino City had not read any of the stories about him. She knew his name; she was not so closed off from society as that. But having no use for tabloid stories or most newspaper headlines, the only thing she knew about him was that he was wealthy, and was the older brother of her son's best friend.

He stood ramrod straight, as if posing for a statue, dressed in an immaculately pressed suit that had probably cost more than Enid's car. His hands were not clasped, behind his back or in front of him, but lay still at his sides, relaxed and unmoving. They were thin hands, deft hands, and the sort of strength that had resonated through his knock seemed out of place for them.

Enid half-expected him to show her a badge or FBI credentials, considering the stone-set severity of his face, and finally understood on seeing that face in person how such a young person could have amassed as much wealth, as much fame, as he had.

"Good evening, Mister Kaiba," she said as she opened the screen door and invited him in. He did not speak, choosing to stride into the Brinkleys' living room silently.

He did not sit when she offered.

Enid sat back down and took up the tea she had begun to drink when his knock had come, taking a sip and setting it back down onto the table. "I would have given Mokuba a ride home," she said. "You needn't have come all the way here."

Seto started to say something, and Enid – long experienced with the innately maternal skill of reading faces – saw indignant anger there.

He stopped himself. He visibly calmed. Steadied himself.

"Thank you," Seto said, voice almost perfectly steady. "That will not be necessary. I...much prefer to pick him up myself."

"I see," Enid said, and wondered why Seto's eyes were still slightly wide, and why his mouth was suddenly much thinner than it had been.

Seto drew in a breath.

"Sorry," he said, and it sounded as if he were forcing himself to say it. "I've had a long day. I'm...tired."

The words sounded shaky, foreign, and the look on his face was uncertain, confused, and most of all frustrated. He ran his hands through his hair, shaking his head irritably.

He said, "Where is Mokuba?"

He almost barked the words like a command, voice much clearer and steadier now. It looked to her as if he were settling himself, and thought it wouldn't be wise to ask him what the matter was.

Instead, she rose to her feet.

Smiling with amusement, Enid crooked a finger at him to follow her. "Come with me. You have to see this."

* * *

**2.  
**

* * *

Enid led Seto through a short hallway and into a quaint, compact kitchen. A dishwasher in one corner, opposite the sink, was running.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked him, even though she knew the answer. Seto knew that she knew the answer, and that it was simply a lifetime of polite habit that had made her ask. Enid glanced back at him, smiling, and it was a sudden, startling realization:

He found that he liked her.

"No, thank you," he said simply, and found the words come easier to him this time. Enid nodded, unsurprised, and beckoned Seto to follow again, leading him to the adjoining dining room.

The room was dominated by a thick, polished wooden table, and the table was dominated by sheet upon sheet of binder paper. Two textbooks – one English, one math – lay open in the center of the mess, numerous pages of each marked with post-it notes. Pencils and notebooks, and a calculator, were stacked next to the books.

Connor Brinkley lay with his face in an open dictionary, fast asleep, a pencil still balanced precariously between two fingers of his right hand.

Mokuba sat at the opposite end of the table, glaring heatedly at a sheet of paper in front of him – covered with scratched-out equations – and wasn't far behind his friend. He was blinking furiously in an attempt to force himself to focus.

Seto watched silently, amusement curving his lips ever so slightly, as Mokuba slowly slumped forward. He smacked his head on the corner of one of the textbooks, and shot back upright, staring owlishly at nothing.

"Mokuba, dear?" Enid said, and it sounded so natural from her. "Someone's here."

Mokuba shook his head, commenced another fit of blinking, and looked around, noticing his brother for the first time. "Niisama!"

Seto chuckled. "I see you've been busy."

"I hear it told," Enid put in, "that the boys' English teacher has decided to allow them to make up partial credit for their...mishap."

"Did she?"

"And in exchange for helping him," she continued, "Connor has been helping Mokuba with his math."

Seto raised an incredulous eyebrow and glanced at his brother quizzically. "I checked your grade last week, Mokuba. You're getting a B."

Enid looked surprised as well. "He is? I thought..."

But Mokuba shrugged. "You always get As, Niisama," he said by way of explanation. "Especially in math. Connor does, too."

"Oh?"

"Oh, yes," Enid confirmed proudly. "A whiz with numbers. That's my boy. He just...has trouble with English."

Seto seemed impressed.

Then he blinked. "You...came here...right after school to...do your homework?" he asked.

"We were gonna play a game," Mokuba said, shrugging again. "Y'know...after we got done. But..."

Seto's face positively glowed.

"I see," he said, and there was laughter in his voice. He might have smiled, but his face stayed relatively still. But there was a brightness to his eyes, a lightness to his stance, and he may as well have been beaming.

Mokuba's face split into a grin.

"Well, kid," Seto said, gesturing at the pile of work on the table, "it seems you've had a productive day. But it's time to go. Gather this up."

"Yes, Niisama."

Enid approached the table and gently shook her son's shoulder. "Connor. Wake up, honey. Mokuba's leaving."

Conner snapped up, the left side of his face red and slightly damp with drool, his blond hair skewed so wildly that Seto had a forceful image of Yugi Motou, and blinked. "Huh? Wh—oh, crap."

"Connor?"

"Sorry, Mom," he said immediately, almost before she admonished him. "I...I didn't mean to crash on you, bro. Sorry 'bout that. Uh...you get it now?"

"Kinda," Mokuba muttered as he yawned involuntarily. "Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow, huh?"

"Sure. See ya."

Conner looked up at his mother, then finally noticed Seto. He jumped slightly. "Oh! M-Mister Kaiba!"

Seto nodded. "Hello, Connor."

"I, uh...I was...um...we forgot to call you."

"I'd noticed."

"We, uh...that is, I...we...didn't...uh..."

"If I had found you two playing a game," Seto said, "there may have been something to discuss. Put it out of your mind. Mokuba, you need to _open _your backpack in order to put things into it."

Mokuba blinked, looked down, and groaned as he unzipped his backpack and began stuffing his work inside. Connor laughed.

"Yeah, ha-ha," Mokuba muttered. "Nice hair."

Connor instantly began combing back his hair with his hands. Seto smirked, and Enid was smiling. "It was nice to see you again, Mokuba," she said. "Come back anytime."

"Thank you, Missus Brinkley."

"Oh!" Connor said suddenly, grinning. "My dad's gonna be home this weekend! Maybe you could...like..."

Seto didn't wait for Mokuba to ask, and Enid was already nodding. "We'll see, kid. I'll check with Roland about the Re-Cal conference. We should be able to make do without you there."

Mokuba grinned again.

"Thank you for having him," Seto said to Enid.

"Oh, of course!" she replied brightly. "I haven't seen Connor this engaged in his schoolwork since he was four." She ruffled her son's already wild hair.

Mokuba got up, slinging his backpack over one shoulder, waving goodbye to Connor as he sidestepped the table. He started to move toward his brother, but swayed and fell against him instead.

"It's almost ten, Mokuba," Seto said with a smirk. "Be careful before you end up like me."

Mokuba grunted.

He started to walk again, swayed again, and stumbled over one foot. Seto caught him by the free strap of his backpack and quickly lifted him up, ignoring a groan of protest that didn't sound very convincing. Enid smiled as Seto carried his brother out to the living room.

* * *

**3.  
**

* * *

"So...you're the _great _Seto Kaiba."

Seto didn't stop, opening the door with his left hand while he held Mokuba against him with his right. He had tried to set the boy down, but Mokuba had protested with an incoherent grunt, so tired that he apparently didn't care how ridiculous he looked.

"I am Seto Kaiba," Seto said once the door was open and he had shifted his brother to a more comfortable position for the both of them. "I am also busy. And if you are finished informing me of my identity, I am leaving."

The speaker was young, about sixteen. The speaker was male, the speaker was greasy, and the speaker looked like a rejected applicant for _blink-182._

He wore a black _Iron Maiden _t-shirt with the sleeves cut off (badly, as if he had been wearing it when he'd attempted to do it); faded, crumpled, too-baggy jeans with a line of what looked like a hundred staples down the side of one leg and purposely frayed hem; worn black boots; and his hair - shaved at the sides and styled in what Seto might have called a Gutter Mohawk – was a badly-dyed green.

He wore a multitude of bracelets on each wrist, and completing the ultimate punk-rock loser cliché was a chain attached to his belt loops, which held a belt that was too loose to be of any use whatsoever.

"Sure, sure," the poster child for the My-Daddy-Doesn't Hug-Me movement said. As he did, Enid walked into the room with Connor at her side, and both frowned at the teen as if he were some breed of parasite. "I'm sure you've got a lot of price-gouging and profit-mongering to do. Don't let me stop you."

There was a beat of silence. Seto seemed legitimately surprised for a moment. He quickly recovered.

"If your vocabulary is any indicator of your intellect," Seto sneered contemptuously, "then you couldn't stop me if I loaded the rifle for you and painted a target on my chest."

Mokuba smiled.

The teenager did not.

"...What'd you say to me?"

"Save the theatrics, nimrod," Seto muttered as he turned a round and stepped out onto the porch. "You aren't intimidating enough for them to work."

He shut the door with one foot.

Stopping to adjust his hold on Mokuba, Seto heard Enid speak through an open window behind him to his left. He tilted his head.

"How _dare _you embarrass me like that?" she demanded. "I did _not _allow you into my house to make a fool of yourself _and _of me in front of my guests!"

"Cool your jets, _Enid. _That guy's a tool. Who cares what he—"

Seto heard the unmistakable _smack _of flesh on flesh, and almost laughed.

"Don't you speak to me like that, you _miserable _little delinquent! I don't care _what _you think of him, he was a guest in _my _house and you will treat him with respect!"

"Mmm...Matt...Kerns..." Mokuba mumbled. "Con...Connor's cousin. He's...he's stupid..."

"I don't know _what _my brother has been letting you get away with," Enid continued hotly, "but it _won't _happen here! You have been harassing poor Mokuba about your _stupid _fixation on hating his brother every time he's been here, and I've had _enough!"_

Seto stiffened.

"Mokuba..." he said.

"Nngh?"

"Sit down. Stay here. I'll be back in a moment."

Mokuba mumbled something.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Seto sat Mokuba down on a small bench to his left, covering the boy with his suit jacket (which Mokuba immediately wrapped around himself as he closed his eyes) and turned around, knocking quickly on the door. Enid was quick to answer.

"May I...?"

Enid opened the door and gestured. "Go right ahead."

Seto strode inside.

Matt looked apprehensive. "...What?"

"You have a problem with me," Seto said coldly. "Tell me. I'm listening."

Connor was staring at Seto openly, and Enid seemed transfixed as well. His body was as still and rigid as it had been before, but there was a particular glint to his eyes, and a twitch in his jaw. Something about the removal of his jacket made him especially threatening.

Matt didn't move. He didn't speak.

After a while, Seto raised an eyebrow. "No?" he asked. "Then it's my turn."

He stepped forward. "Mokuba is _not _my sponsor. He is _not _my spokesman. He is _not _my agent. If you have a problem with me, you will tell it to _me. _I will _not _tolerate Mokuba being held accountable for whatever you think makes me a _tool. _I don't care _what _problem you have with my 'profit-mongering' or whatever other bastardization of English you learned on the latest _System of a Down _single you think I'm guilty of, you will _never _bring it to my brother."

Matt took an involuntary step backward, and Seto took another step forward. The air was sizzling with tension, and it wouldn't have surprised either observer of this confrontation if fire had shot from Seto's eyes.

"You are _not _to speak to my brother again. If he is here, you will leave. If he walks into a room, you will vacate it. You will be silent in his presence when it is unavoidable that you be in it. You will not speak of me, or him, again. This is not a request."

Seto turned to leave again.

Matt stared after him for a moment, then scoffed. He manufactured a laugh, and Seto stopped on a dime. "You know what?" he said in a voice that made Seto's teeth clench. "_Fuck _you, man. You ain't my mother. I'll do whatever the fuck I _want _to your precious brot—-_hulghk!"_

Seto's right hand clamped tightly around Matt's throat, thumbnail digging into his windpipe. The teen's eyes bulged. Shifting his grip slightly, Seto hauled him off of his feet, and his eyes were wide, feverish, and manic.

"I...restrained myself for Missus Brinkley's sake..." he hissed. "I have been polite. I have been clear. Apparently, it has not been enough."

Matt gurgled and hacked, twitching in Seto's vice-grip.

"I _do...not...tolerate..._threats made against my brother. I do not _tolerate _people bringing problems to him on my account. I do not _tolerate _pompous, mistakenly arrogant, public-school reject would-be gangsters bullying him. Burn this into your memory, _Matt: _I am stronger than you. I am faster than you. I am meaner than you. I am _better _than you. And you will _never _speak to my brother again."

He threw Matt backward, and he crashed into the couch, gulping great mouthfuls of air as the purple tinge to his skin started to lessen.

Seto turned on his heel and glanced at Enid as he moved to leave. "I apologize for my conduct."

"_I _apologize for his," Enid replied.

"I will bring Mokuba here on Saturday afternoon."

"I'll be sure to expect him."

Seto nodded. "Thank you. Good night, Missus Brinkley."

"Don't mention it. It's our pleasure. Good night, Mister Kaiba."

Enid walked away, pointedly ignoring her nephew, as if to tell him: _you asked for that._

Seto gave a fleeting nod to Connor before leaving.

* * *

**5.  
**

* * *

"Hey...Niisama?"

Seto made a low sound in his throat to show that he was listening. Mokuba's voice was slurred; it was clear he was barely awake.

"Thanks."

"Don't worry about it, kiddo. That..._thing _needed a kick in his discolored teeth."

"He called Connor 'n idiot for likin' me..."

"And what did Connor say?"

"He as' me for...pencil."

Seto chuckled.

"And he called you a...a...'profit-mongerer.'"

"And what did _you _say?"

"I asked him 'f he'd ever thought of takin' up...bath-mongering."

Seto actually laughed.

Mokuba slipped in and out of sleep and semi-coherence several times while his brother drove them home, and by the time they finally pulled into the front gates of the Kaiba Estate, it was ten-thirty.

"Why the zombie act, Mokuba?" Seto asked as he carried Mokuba through the dark halls of the mansion, flicking on lights when they were absolutely necessary. "You look like you ran two marathons this morning."

"I was...u-up at...three...two...sumfin'...got...started. Lotsa...lotsa work, for...the...the thing. Yeah." Mokuba made a nonsensical gesture with one arm.

"Two?" Seto asked incredulously. "Mokuba, why would you do that? It's no wonder you can't walk. Come on. Time for bed."

"I...I still...gotsa lotta...lotsa stuff...mebbe jus'a...bit..."

"Hush," Seto said, a bit harsher than he'd meant to. "You're going to bed, Mokuba. You sound drunk. You don't have to work yourself ragged. You did well today. Very well."

"I was jus'...tryna be...r'spons'ble. Like...you always sayin'."

Seto smiled. "You did well, little brother," he repeated gently. "Now no more arguing. You're going to bed."

"...Mmmmm...'kay."

Seto shook his head, chuckling.

* * *

**6.  
**

* * *

Mokuba's bedroom was the same as any other boy's bedroom. That was to say, it was a complete mess. As Seto stepped over his brother's various toys and clothes, he made a note to have Mokuba clean it before Saturday.

Aside from the obstacle course that some cultures called a floor, there was a simple wooden desk, a single chair, a couple shelves, his dresser, and his bed.

Which, as luck would have it, was currently a bare mattress with sheets piled up near the foot of it.

Shaking his head again, sighing, Seto set his brother down on the chair and quickly made the bed, locating Mokuba's blanket only after tossing a few shirts over his shoulder and nearly cutting open his right palm on an unusually sharp action figure.

When the task was completed, he lay Mokuba down – remembering in a sudden flash doing this every night when the boy was younger – and tucked him in.

Violet-gray eyes still remained obstinately open, and Seto reached over to one of the shelves, where sat a 3-disc CD player. Clicking a few buttons with practiced flicks of his fingers, he adjusted the volume and sat down at his brother's chair.

Soft acoustic guitar began to flow from the speakers, and Seto caught himself whispering the lyrics as he stroked back his brother's hair.

"Here's to you...like brothers tonight...tried and true, fading...in the twilight...well, I can hear you breathing...see your picture on the wall...I would give you my wings...if they'd help you at all..."

Mokuba smiled, and shut his eyes.

"Good job today, kid," Seto said again, returning the smile. "I'm proud of you."

"Niisama...prou'me."

"That's right." Seto leaned down and kissed Mokuba's forehead, something he hadn't done for several years. "Niisama's proud of you."

He set the song to repeat, lowered the volume a bit more, and left the room, smile widening as he saw that Mokuba had put up a poster of a Blue-Eyes White Dragon on the back side of his door.

As he shut the door behind him, Seto laughed softly.

"...Love that kid."

* * *

**END**

* * *

_**The song that Seto plays for Mokuba to help him sleep is the same one quoted at the very beginning of the chapter. The lyrics that Seto repeats are the first verse. I chose this song primarily because I find it soothing, and the sort of song that Seto would choose as a lullaby. **_

_**To anybody wondering why Seto was acting so strangely with Enid upon first meeting her, he was attempting to be nice for Mokuba's sake. But he isn't all that used to being polite to people on a normal basis, so he was a bit awkward about it. **_

_**The character of Matthew Kerns was put into the story on a bit of a whim. He was inspired by any number of people I have met, and I'm sure you've met people like him, too. If you haven't, count yourself lucky. They aren't exactly nice to be around. **_

_**Side note, I like System of a Down and blink-182. My references to these two bands were not meant as a shot at them; it merely seems to me that Seto would not be particularly fond of them. I think you will agree with me there.**_


	4. Street Justice

**_This chapter is when things first started really going in a linear direction, I think. So essentially, this story will only maintain its character as a "oneshot" collection in the fact that I don't have an overall plot in mind. This will be going in a similar vein of an anime or a manga, shall we say, in specific story arcs, perhaps with some stand-alone "filler" every so often, depending on my mood._**

_**There is a bit more of that "reverse foreshadowing" I talked about in the second chapter popping up in this one. I'm currently working on going through the specifics of that story, and once I have it figured out properly, I'll let you know. Currently, some of the stuff I have planned conflicts with the final scene of chapter two, so I'll be going back and changing it after a while. I'll tell you when I do.**_

_**Any of you guys feel like seeing a couple other members of our favorite card-flinging family? Well, you're about to. I'm having a lot of fun with this project, and I hope you are, too. Let's see what's happening now, shall we?**_

* * *

******1.  
**

* * *

"Fancy seein' _you _here."

Seto didn't glance up; he didn't need to. The voice was immediately, and irritatingly, familiar. He was about to make a scathing retort, perhaps regarding the speaker's questionable ability to _spell _the word fancy, but in a flash remembered Connor Brinkley's cousin.

And suddenly he realized that the New-Yorker's twang of Joey Wheeler's voice didn't grate on his nerves so much today. And so he said, "I am dealing with Solomon Motou because he is the only man competent enough to fill my order at the moment."

He still did not look up, but he knew that Joey was looking at him oddly. "Tha' right?"

"I require the full catalog of the 'Dark Avatar' set released last week, and he is the only one who offered to fill the order immediately. So I am here."

"Huh. Well, Gramps ain't gonna be for f' another...half-hour yet. So, uh...gonna hafta wait."

Seto grunted.

As he turned his gaze back to the paperback book in his hands, Seto remained completely silent as Joey grabbed a broom leaning against one wall and began to sweep.

There had been a time, not so long ago, when the two of them in the same room together would have been a recipe for public disturbance. Joey – prideful and rash – never had been able to let any of Seto's snide comments roll off his back, choosing instead to start a screaming match that would inevitably end in _Seto_ being kicked out of the establishment.

Eventually, though, things had changed. Most of it had to do with Mokuba. His shared experiences with Joey, Yugi, and the rest of their friends led him to being included as "one of the guys," something Mokuba was quite pleased with. Seto had initially felt an urge to step in, to stop them from speaking with each other, but had stepped back.

"I don't like you," Seto had told Joey one afternoon. "The feeling is mutual, I am certain. But Mokuba likes us both. Something has to change."

"Yeah," Joey had said, shrugging. "Guess so."

And so, the pair had decided that the proper response to the nigh-inevitable hostility that would result in their being together would be ignoring each other's very existence. Meetings between Seto and "the idiot brigade" inevitably quieted, and life for all of them became more peaceful.

"It's 'cuz that kid knows how to get anything outta anybody," Joey had said once. "He's a frickin' con artist and he don't even know it...and the worst part about it is I don't think I mind too much."

Seto would have understood...if Joey had said it to him.

* * *

******2.**

* * *

"...Mokuba has a new friend at school."

Joey stopped sweeping. "Yeah? Sweet."

"Connor Brinkley. Eleven, blond. Good with math, bad with English."

Joey raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Well, 'bout time the li'l guy started hangin' with kids his own age. So whatsa deal? Not good enough for ya?"

Seto shook his head, ignoring the jibe. "He's fine. I think they're good for each other. It's Connor's cousin, Matthew Kerns, that I have a problem with."

"'Zat right?"

"On speaking to Connor's mother," Seto continued, as if he were giving a mission briefing, "I understand that he is leaving the city in a week, to go back to his parents' home in San Diego. He is here...on a vacation. Whether the vacation was for Kerns himself or his parents, I'm not entirely certain. But I have a guess."

"Sounds like a peach," Joey muttered.

"He has a problem with me. I am...gouging prices, and mongering profits, if I recall his rhetoric correctly."

Joey scowled. "The hell? _How_ old's this guy?"

"Fifteen, sixteen. I didn't ask."

"Right...fun guy."

"He has been taking out this frustration over my success on Mokuba," Seto said, and Joey's face instantly straightened. "There has been nothing physical, insofar as I can tell. But I confronted him about this, and I'm not exactly confident that he will let well enough alone."

When Joey spoke next, his voice was low and dangerous, and had anyone else been listening, they would have been surprised at how eerily similar his voice sounded to Seto's.

"...Yeah?"

"He fancies himself a bully," Seto said. "Dresses like a felon, acts like a swaggering frat boy. He won't have liked my...discussion with him. And he'll take it out on Mokuba."

"Kid got a bodyguard?"

Seto shook his head. "I've looked. Nobody I've found so far is clean enough to trust full-time. Listen, Wheeler. I've worked hard to ensure that the people of this city know that Mokuba is off-limits. It's worked well these past few months, after the debacle with..._him_."

Joey's face fell slightly at this; he knew what Seto was talking about.

"But Kerns is not from this city," Seto continued, "and does not know who he's dealing with."

Joey forced the somber expression off of his face in favor of an amused smirk. "In for a rude awakenin'."

"More than likely. Mokuba and Connor are taking a trip to the mall this afternoon after school lets out, and Connor's mother has asked that Kerns look after them. She is of the opinion that I've scared him straight. I am not."

Joey crossed his arms. "I see. Think he's gonna try somethin'?"

"Not overtly. Not in public. But he's stupid enough to think he can threaten, and I won't have Mokuba worrying about it. He has no reason to fear for himself, but he will worry for Connor, who has to live with the idiot for now."

Joey nodded. "Right."

"They'll be there at three."

Joey fished a cellular phone out of his pocket and looked at it. "...Two-twenty," he said. He punched in a number and waited. "Oi. Tris. Clear ya schedule for the next couple hours. We're goin' shoppin'."

Joey pocketed the phone and nodded to Seto again, and there was a species of camaraderie between them when he said,

"I'm on it."

* * *

******3.**

* * *

It might have been intimidating or uncomfortable for anyone else. Connor, at least, seemed nervous about it. He kept glancing at his cousin every few seconds, sighing and adjusting his shirt when he did.

Mokuba had learned to ignore others' eyes on him. He had seen too many people with looks like Matt's on their faces to be affected by it anymore. And he might have been nervous about the implications of the fact that Matt was glaring daggers into _his _head if he hadn't stared down the barrels of a few guns in his day.

"Ignore him," Mokuba told Connor, making sure to be loud enough for Matt to hear. "It's not worth getting scared over. If he thinks he can do anything to _me _in a place this public?"

"What's so special about _you?" _Matt sneered.

"I think you might have met a 'profiteer' recently who could tell you the answer to that," Mokuba said without looking back. _"I'm_ not saying I'm special. But these people might. That's the thing about being famous, I guess."

"Tch. Bunch of sheep."

"Yeah, 'cuz _you _don't look like a walking stereotype at all," Mokuba replied, rolling his eyes.

"Shut up!"

"Oh, oka—oops. Sorry."

Connor laughed.

Mokuba looked around, and glimpsed something that caught his eye. A very particular blond teenager strolled out of a booth with a hot pretzel. A very particular _brunette_ teenager was with him.

They began to walk straight toward Mokuba with an air of simply strolling. Mokuba turned his eyes from them and hid a smile with his hand.

"You laughin' at me?"

Connor turned. "Matt, you heard what Mom said. Leave him alone."

"Mommy ain't here, _dork."_

Joey barreled into Matt just as he was lifting a hand. Matt whirled, staring after him with a scowl. Joey, looking down at the teen with contempt (he was several inches taller), smirked.

"Oughtta watch where ya goin'. People're walkin' here."

"You bumped into _me, _you prick!"

"Sure thing, boss."

Tristan came up behind Matt and chuckled. As the two began to walk away he said, loudly, "Getta look at that clown? We in a _Simple Plan _video?"

"Hey, I like them," Joey said.

Tristan laughed. "You would."

Mokuba was outright grinning now.

* * *

******4.**

* * *

Seto had taught his brother to never let a bully get the better of him. It was one of the most important things Mokuba had ever learned, and it had saved his life more than once.

"The worst thing you can do to them is let them see you squirm," Seto had said. "Ignore it. The looks, the jeers, the jokes, everything. Just ignore it. Rising to the bait will only give them power, and that's the last thing you want. It'll make them more confident. You'll end up with a lot worse on your hands that way."

Unfortunately, this advice had been given just after Mokuba had gotten a new action figure stolen at school, and he had not been in much of a mood to listen to reason.

"He stole my toy, Niisama!"

Seto had smiled gently, reached down and snapped open his briefcase, and produced the figure, complete with "M.K." marked on the bottom of one foot. "This?"

Mokuba had gasped. "Niisama! You...you...!"

"Listen, kiddo," Seto had said, passing the figure to Mokuba. "No matter what anyone at school says or does to you, don't let them see it work. Let them know you aren't afraid of them."

"But I _am!"_

Another, wider smile. "Don't be. They may be mean, they may be big, and they may be 'popular.' But they're no match for me." Seto had put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "They will _never_...be a match for me."

And so, following his big brother's advice with a smile, Mokuba made sure to buy lunch for Matt, too, when they stopped at his favorite restaurant. Both to prove he wasn't bothered by him, and to tweak his nose.

Matt (predictably) looked offended, but said nothing.

"Dad says he'll be home Saturday," Connor said. "He wants to meet you. He knows who you are, I guess. You're really famous, huh?"

Mokuba shrugged. "Niisama's been on TV a lot. I'm usually with him. I'm nothing compared to him." He didn't say this with an air of self-deprecation, but one of glowing adoration.

"But...you've been in tournaments too, right?" Connor asked, sounding excited. "Don't you play Capmon?"

Mokuba raised an eyebrow. "Used to. Tournament rules changed too much. It's broken. Being famous isn't all that great, y'know. I've been kidnapped...four times now."

"Tch," Matt said, sneering. "Probably deserved it...money-grubbing little..."

Mokuba's eyes snapped wide, suddenly feral, and the sharpness of his expression made Connor flinch. "...What did you say...?"

"Yeah," came a serpent's hiss of a voice from behind Matt, causing him to jump, as Joey Wheeler slapped a hand on his shoulder and leaned in close. "...What'd you say, asshole?"

* * *

******5.**

* * *

Joey kicked up a chair from an empty table and propped his feet up, looking back at Matt with a friendly – but predatory – look on his face.

"Now...I ain't sayin' I got bionic hearing or nuttin'," the blond said, "but what _I _heard outta you was that my little buddy here deserved to get kidnapped 'cuz his _brother's _got a lotta money. Now, color me stupid, I guess, 'cuz I dunno if I see the connection, there."

"There's a connection, I think," Tristan put in, hands in his pockets as he stepped up to the other side of the table. "Kaiba _does _have quite the pocketbook, y'know. So I guess it stands to reason that people'd wanna get a stab at it. But...to say Mokuba _deserves _it..."

Tristan shook his head, clicking his tongue in admonition.

Mokuba grinned broadly, and Connor looked confused.

Joey stretched lazily, lacing his hands together behind his head. Noting that Connor was looking at him, he winked. "Yo. You must be the new guy."

"Uh...hi?"

"This is Joey," Mokuba said. "Joey Wheeler."

Connor blinked. "Joey Wheeler? I've seen you on TV! You beat Bandit Keith, right? At Duel Monsters, at that Duelist Kingdom tournament!"

Joey beamed. "Hey-_hey_, now. I like you, kid. Yeah, 'at's me. But today, I'm just a friend o' Mokuba's, jus' like you. And, uh...looks like there's some trouble brewin', don't it?"

"I didn't do anything to you," Matt snapped defensively.

"Don't recall saying you did," Tristan said, crossing his arms. "Never seen you before today. Ask me, I was better off yesterday, before I knew people still dressed like that."

"Man, screw off," Matt said. "I don't care what you think of me."

Joey barked a laugh. "Yeah, we ain't heard _that _one before. Well, look, Matty-boy..."

"Don't call me that, asshole. And how do you know my na—"

"Word out," Joey cut in, voice suddenly sharper, "is you ain't made the best impression on Moku, here, _or _his big brother. Now...that there's a problem. Pretty big problem."

"You threatening me?"

"Whatcha gonna do? Blog it? Cut the shit, you prick. Point is, you made a pretty bad enemy, and you're gonna wanna shape up before he decides you're a liability ain't worth dealin' with."

"I'm not scared of—"

"Dear _God, _will you shut up? I get it. You're a tough guy. Good f' you, I'll getcha a damn medal. Look, I don't like Seto Kaiba too much, either. A'right? We get along 'bout as well as a couple o' starving dogs with one steak. But me? I'm a frickin' puppy. And I am scared half to death o' gettin' on that guy's bad side."

"Nice metaphor, Joe," Tristan snickered.

"Shut it. Matt, look. I ain't here to play nice witcha. I'm not some peace officer tryna get you to trust me. I'm your fuckin' _parole _officer. Either you wise up and _get _scared o' Seto Kaiba right damn quick, or I'm gonna get angry. You can play me off if you want. Go ahead 'n be stupid. But I'm tellin' you right now what Kaiba already told you: you lay off this kid. He's got connections like you wouldn't believe, and you already got two of 'em on your ass."

Joey stood up and slipped over to stand behind Matt, putting both hands on his shoulders. "That's a mean bruise you got there on yer neck," he said softly. "Be a shame to get some more. So why don't you run on home, where it's safe? You ain't needed here."

"I'm s'posed to be here to—"

"Tell an eleven-year-old kid he _deserved _to get kidnapped. Right. Same kid you said you'd 'do whatever the _fuck' _you want with. Get the hell outta here before I make you walk on broken goddamn ankles."

"You can't threaten me like tha—"

"_Shut it!" _Joey snarled. "I can threaten whoever I _damn_ well want to, 'cuz _I _understand there's frickin' consequences to breakin' rules! You don't."

"Ain't a _rule _to let some stuck-up suit do this to me!"

"Stuck-up suit ain't here," Joey hissed in Matt's ear. _"I_ am. And I'm talkin' about _my _rules. And _my _rules say you back off and quit playin' a game you're too much of a fuck-up to play. Kaiba told you to stay the _hell _quiet around him, and that _definitely _covers tellin' him _your _theory on whether're not he should be a target 'cuz of a bunch o' money _he_ don't even have. I'll be sure 'n tell Kaiba whatcha said, by the way, just 'cuz you piss me off. Threatenin' a little kid. You _goddamn_ bastard. You got a _bad _time ahead o' you if you don't disappear."

Joey lifted Matt out of his chair and pushed him into the crowd. "Now get the hell outta here. I gave you a warning. You come back here'n I'm gonna give you a lesson on Domino City politics."

Tristan cracked his knuckles almost casually.

Matt began to stumble away. "You can't do this to me!"

"I been to jail before, pinky!" Joey called back. "I can always go back!"

Matt stared at him for a while before breaking into a run.

* * *

******6.**

* * *

"Niisama put you up to this," Mokuba said, and it wasn't a question.

"Mentioned somethin'," Joey replied with a shrug.

Mokuba grinned. "This whole bodyguard thing isn't really necessary. That guy's about as threatening as a plastic cap gun."

"Speak for yourself," Connor muttered. "I gotta _live _with that creep for a week."

"Hey," Tristan said, and Connor looked up as if seeing the man for the first time. "If that jerk tries'n take it out on you, you just let us know."

"S'right," Joey said. "Tristan, here, didn' do much talkin', but he knows his way around. Friend o' Mokuba's a friend of ours. We protect our own, got it?"

"Niisama's a friend of mine," Mokuba put in.

"Yeah," Joey laughed, "but he don't need no protection. 'At guy'd mop the frickin' floor with me."

"Is Mister Kaiba a martial artist or something?" Connor asked.

"'Mister Kaiba.' Listen to him. You'll go places, kid. Yeah, I guess you'd say Kaiba's a martial artist."

"Call Yugi short, too," Tristan muttered. "That guy's no artist. He's a _machine."_

Mokuba, beaming with pride, sat back and said nothing. Connor smiled.

"Yeah, yeah, lookit you," Joey muttered. "Got that smug li'l Cheshire Cat crap goin'. A'right, so Kaiba's not so bad. People skills still suck, though."

"Yeah. And _you're_ a real diplomat."

"Man, shut up, Tris."

"...Have you really been to jail?" Connor asked suddenly, and there was an apprehensive look on his face. Joey blinked, not expecting the question, and laughed.

"Jail? Nah. Jus' sounded good. Scared 'im off, didn't it? I'm an upstandin' citizen, y'know?" Joey winked. Connor seemed to feel better, but Mokuba couldn't help but wonder.

But instead of furthering the subject, he got up from his chair and said, "Are you guys hungry?"

"Are we guys hungry..." Tristan muttered, rolling his eyes.

Mokuba began to reach for his wallet, but Joey held up a hand. "Hold up, there, rich boy. I don't wantcher blood money. Capitalist dog."

"Call it a paycheck for being my muscle."

Joey grinned. "Well, now..._that _my people may be able to talk out. I wan' my pay in chicken form, then. An' leave the skin on. My people are offended by skinless chicken."

"Rain check, actually," Tristan said. "Just remembered. My aunt's in town. Goin' to a big dinner tonight."

"'Kay."

"Oi. This gig come with benefits?"

"Like?"

"Like a...7-Up or somethin'."

Mokuba grinned. "Sure."

As the black-haired boy walked off to fill Joey's order, Connor raised an eyebrow. "Do you think Mister Kaiba's gonna like you doing that? He said not to spend too much."

"You kiddin'?" Joey asked. "Kaiba'll love it. Now he don't owe me nuttin' for this."

* * *

******7.**

* * *

"_Master Kaiba."_

Seto glanced up, irritated at the interruption, and snapped a finger onto the button of his intercom. "What is it?" he said sharply.

_"A call for you. From a private residence."_

"Not interested."

_"The woman says it's urgent, sir."_

"I'm sure."

_"Ah...it's about Young Master Mokuba, sir."_

Seto's eyes narrowed. "What name did she give?"

_"A, uh...Missus Enid Brinkley."_

"Patch it through."

_"At once, Master Kaiba."_

A moment later, Enid Brinkley's voice – shaky and worried – came through and Seto picked up his private phone, leaning back in his chair. "Yes, Missus Brinkley," he said. "What is it?"

_"Matt just came home," _she said. _"The boys aren't with him. He...he says that a pair of thugs threw him out of a restaurant."_

"Of course he did," Seto grunted. "The 'thugs' in question are Joseph Wheeler and Tristan Taylor. Joseph called me a moment ago and told me he thought it better if Mokuba and Connor stayed with him until they come home."

_"You...know them?"_

"I _sent _them. From what Joseph has told me, it is a good thing that I did. Apparently, your nephew decided it proper to inform Mokuba that he deserves to be kidnapped. I don't know about you, but_ I_ don't find that very amusing."

_"You said _what?" Enid snarled, voice slightly muffled as she apparently turned to look at her nephew.

"Inform Matthew that if I receive _any _complaint against him, from my brother or Connor or Joseph Wheeler or _anyone _again_, _that I will be pursuing legal action."

_"...I understand completely, Mister Kaiba," _Enid said icily.

"Thank you. You have my word that your son is completely safe. You haven't any need to worry. I apologize for not informing you sooner."

_"It's quite all right. I understand. As long as he's okay. Now, if you will excuse me, Mister Kaiba...I have something to _discuss _with my nephew. I'm sorry to have bothered you."_

"Not at all. Goodbye, Missus Brinkley."

_"Goodbye, Mister Kaiba."_

Seto drew in a deep breath and shook his head. He looked at the phone for a full minute after hanging up, and if anyone else had been in the office, they would have seen a battle waging on that statue's face.

Finally, he picked up the receiver again and punched in a number. Two rings later, Joey Wheeler answered: _"Hey, hey. The rich man calleth. What's up?"_

"Wheeler, I don't trust this one," Seto said. "He's too stupid to listen to us."

_"Yeah, kinda got that vibe."_

"I'll be taking care of things when and if he decides to impart any more 'wisdom' on Mokuba, but if he decides he can get away with something physical, I want someone there to take care of it immediately."

Joey was silent for a while.

_"...He's gonna be here a week, right?"_

"I'm prepared to compensate—"

_"No need. I don't intend to let this lice-infested punk off the hook, anyway. I'll keep an eye on things. Ya wanna compensate me, make sure we're square, we'll talk after this prick's dealt with. Tell ya the truth, though, I dunno if it's the Moku-man we oughtta be lookin' after too much."_

Seto raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

_"Guy can't get under ya brother's skin for nuttin'. Lettin' everything he says roll right off. Connor, though...he ain't like Mokuba. He's soft. Gonna go after _him _'fore he does anything else."_

"...I see."

_"Connor's a good kid. You were right. I like 'im. But he's walkin' around with a target on 'is back. So I think we oughtta look out f' him, too."_

Seto drew in a deep breath, leaning back in his chair again. Drawing his free hand into a fist, he nodded and said,

"You're right."

* * *

******END**

* * *

**__****If anybody wonders—and you probably should—why Seto and Joey seem so chummy in this chapter...well, that's something I'll be going into later. It's a very important point in the story, and it's one that's been quite enjoyable to plan out. This probably isn't a good thing for me to admit, as you'll see when I get it written and posted for you.**

**__****I've taken to calling this initial "arc" the Matt Chronicles, for reasons I'm sure you can guess. There will be quite a while for me to go before it's complete, but that's how things always go, isn't it? Always end up going on longer than expected. I think that's generally a good thing. More fun for all of us...that is my hope, anyway.**

**__****Next chapter will be set in the past, by the way. Call it a flashback if you will. Just so nobody gets confused. Hope you're still enjoying this. Drop me a line if such is your inclination. I'll see you all next time.**


	5. Reconciled Differences

_**This chapter is, as stated in my previous author's note, a flashback chapter. This is important to consider because otherwise, it may be a bit confusing. Suffice it to say that the first four chapters that I have posted are based upon the theory that Mokuba has struck up a friendship with Yugi, Joey, and the others, which I note is a relatively common element of a lot of the fanfiction I've read in the past. It's easy to see why, I think. **_

_**However, this plot element is not introduced very heavily in canon, and thus must be accounted for if one is to craft a complete picture. This chapter, therefore, is set chronologically much earlier than the rest of the story, because this is when Mokuba's friendship with the primary "gang" first comes into being. **_

_**With that said, go forth and ponder. **_

* * *

**1.  
**

* * *

Plenty of people wondered.

How, _why_, they asked amongst themselves (because the only answer _he _ever gave was, "Why's it matter? Who're you?")? Why would someone like _him _be accepted by someone like _that?_

Joey Wheeler hadn't realized it at the time, nor would he for quite some time, but he and Seto Kaiba shared a very strict opinion on that matter (and a great deal many others): they - he - didn't care. It didn't bear speaking about, because how and why didn't matter.

Téa would have said that "friendship runs deeper than that," but Joey didn't even spare the time to think that, because it just didn't matter to him. What mattered to him was _what._

And if Seto had ever really bothered to think about it, he would have probably come to a conclusion much closer to the truth than Téa Gardner: the reason Joey started hanging around with Mokuba Kaiba was because he needed someone to protect.

Yugi had toughened up over time, to the point where he no longer needed a bodyguard around. This was not to say that they'd grown distant; Joey Wheeler and Yugi Motou were just as inseparable as ever. But since Yugi had learned how to take care of himself - and since Serenity still lived with their mother and only visited a few days out of a given month - Joey was left ward-less.

Seto would have understood.

If he had cared.

And so the first time Mokuba asked Yugi if he could come over for a weekend, Joey was fully behind the idea - even though he didn't specifically realize why at the time.

It had been a Thursday, and he and Yugi had been playing speed-checkers (with Joey losing spectacularly) while Tristan made popcorn in the kitchen. Téa would have been there, but she was in New York, finally fulfilling her dream of studying dance, having received a full scholarship after her graduation from high school the previous year.

"Hello," Yugi answered when the phone rang. "Turtle Game Shop. This is Yugi speaking; how can I help you?"

Taking a break from making a fool of himself, Joey leaned back in his chair and listened.

"Oh!" Yugi said, sounding surprised. "Hi, Mokuba. How's it going? Great. Ah...hm? Oh! Oh, wow. Really? That sounds awesome. Sure; can't wait to...huh? Oh, well...no, I don't think so. Free this weekend, actually. Why?"

Yugi listened for a while, and an amused grin rose on his face. "Mokuba, don't sound so flustered. I'm not a game show. No, don't worry. I know what you're talking about. Of course you can. Yes, really. Whenever you like. Okay, then. Tomorrow. All right. Bye."

Yugi hung up and laughed. "Mokuba's coming over tomorrow," he said, and Joey raised an eyebrow. "I don't think he goes out much, 'cuz he sounded like he was giving a job interview or something."

Joey chuckled. "Well, cool. What's one more, huh? More the merrier 'n all that. Shoulda told 'im to buy us lobster for dinner or somethin'."

"Right. With how he sounded, he'd have thought I was serious."

"So'm I! Lobster's awesome, man!"

Yugi laughed.

Tristan came back into the room with a huge bowl of caramel popcorn. "What's up?" he asked. "Who's that on the phone?"

"Mokuba," Yugi said. "He's coming by tomorrow."

"What for?"

Yugi blinked. "Uh...hang out, I guess? Play a game, watch a movie? Whatever. I dunno."

"Huh," was Tristan's response.

Joey frowned, somewhat confused, but didn't bother asking why Tristan suddenly stopped talking very much. He went back to the checkerboard and decided it could wait.

It was probably nothing.

* * *

**2.  
**

* * *

Joey wasn't sure what he'd expected.

If forced to guess, he supposed he would have figured Mokuba to be dropped off at Yugi's in a limousine, by a personal driver, who would nod or bow as Mokuba stepped out - all prim and proper - and gave a nice, cultured little rich-boy wave.

He certainly hadn't figured that Kaiba would drive his brother to the Turtle Game Shop personally, in a sports car the likes of which actually brought a gasp out of Joey's lips.

Sleek, masterful, as if it had been hand-sculpted by some sort of god, Kaiba's private car was a metallic blue that had obviously been taken directly from his signature - the closest thing to a mascot Kaiba-Corp had - the Blue Eyes White Dragon. Joey had no idea what it was _called_ ("Bugatti Veyron," he would find out later from Duke Devlin), but he couldn't help but stare.

Mokuba hopped out of his brother's vehicle with a backpack slung over his right shoulder, dressed in simple khaki pants and a light blue sweater over a white shirt. Kaiba, however, was dressed in what Joey would realize was his standard attire; not a flashy, eye-catching trench coat over a shirt and slacks, but a custom-tailored Kiton suit whose price tag would have looked more believable on the car.

Joey realized with a jolt as Kaiba strode quickly up the sidewalk beside his brother, that he couldn't for the life of him remember ever seeing the man dressed in anything else.

He put the mystifying (and absurd) thought out of his mind.

But another one came almost immediately on the heels of it: this was the first time he'd ever seen either Kaiba brother outside of a crisis. The first time he'd seen them...being themselves.

"Hey-hey, it's the little man," Joey said, chuckling, and Mokuba smiled. With a sideways glance at Yugi, the blond amended, "Littler man."

"Hey!" Yugi elbowed him. Mokuba laughed.

Kaiba stood a few feet behind, arms crossed over his chest, saying nothing. His face was absolutely still, a phenomenon he was well known for, but his eyes were so sharp and intense that it seemed like they were burning.

"Well, I gotta sweep up the porch real quick," Yugi told the ebon-haired heir of Kaiba-Corp, "so, uh...head on in. Make yourself at home."

Joey expected Kaiba to make some scathing remark - actually _heard _him say, "That heap is no more a home than the land it was dumped on" - before realizing that the man hadn't said a word. But the neutral line of his mouth lowered in a faint ghost of his trademark frown, and the fingers of his left hand dug into the opposite arm.

"'Kay," Mokuba said, but did not go toward the front door of the shop. Instead, he dropped his backpack and made his way back to his brother, hugging him tightly about the waist. "Bye, Niisama. I love you."

At those words, the tension in Kaiba's body evaporated, and Joey actually flinched at how much a simple smile could light up his face.

Kaiba ruffled his brother's hair affectionately, giving the boy a one-armed hug of his own. "Love you, too, kid," he said, and Joey flinched again at the sincerity he heard in the young executive's deep, gravelly voice. "Have fun."

Mokuba responded with a beaming grin as he hurried back to his discarded pack, picking it up and practically skipping up to Yugi's door. He turned and waved as he walked inside, and Kaiba responded by raising a hand.

Once Mokuba was out of sight, the hand dropped, and the faint - but so alien - smile on Kaiba's face vanished as quickly and startlingly as it had appeared. His hawk-like glare swept over Joey, Yugi, and Tristan as if he were a drill sergeant inspecting new recruits.

And he said, "Don't fuck this up for him."

Yugi blinked, Tristan rolled his eyes and frowned, but Joey made no reaction at all. It was like he'd fully expected it.

And he felt compelled to reply, "Understood."

* * *

**3.  
**

* * *

It was painfully obvious to Joey - and Yugi - that Mokuba had never spent the night at a friend's house before. The boy was giddy, so excited that it wouldn't have surprised either of them if his head popped off and showered the table with confetti.

It was a sad realization - had the poor kid _ever _had a friend outside of his brother? - but all the same, Mokuba's euphoria was infectious.

Joey couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard during a game of Jenga.

"Ah! Joey loses!" Mokuba declared.

"Damned if I do, you little cheat! Bumped m' arm!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Quitcher lyin', rich boy! I saw ya!"

Mokuba pushed Joey's elbow, smacking it against the edge of the table, and the blond groaned. _"That _was me bumping your arm," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Yeah?" Joey asked, and leaned over, grabbing Mokuba in a headlock and driving a knuckle into the top of his head with about as much force as a butterfly's breath. Mokuba laughed as he tried to wriggle his way out of the blond's grip. "Hm? Whazzat? Huh?"

"I'm sorry!" Mokuba cried, laughing harder. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Joey let go and ruffled the boy's hair. "Yeah. S'right. Punk. A'right, that's it. Rematch, rich boy. Let's go."

Yugi grinned broadly as he set up the tower of blocks again, Joey, still laughing, turned his attention over to the other side of the room, where Tristan lounged on the couch, watching TV.

"Oi!" Joey called. "C'mon over here! Whatcha doin' over there, anyway? Party's this way, man!"

Tristan grunted distractedly. "Meh."

"C'mon, Tris," Joey prodded. "Play a game. Help me regain m' dignity. You'd be surprised how fun this frickin' thing is."

"...Not in the mood."

Joey blinked at his friend as if he were speaking Russian. "What? Whatcha mean, 'not in the mood?' Getcher ass over here!"

"I'm not...in the...mood."

Joey picked up a piece from the top of the Jenga tower and tossed it in Tristan's direction. His aim was true, and it bounced against the brunette's head. He chuckled.

"Will you _lay off?" _Tristan snarled, picking up the block and launching it back at Joey. _His _aim was just as true...It struck Mokuba right on the nose.

"Ow!" the boy cried, more in surprise than actual pain, falling backward against the table.

"Oh, shit!" Joey breathed. "You okay, kid?"

"Y-Yeah," Mokuba said softly, rubbing his nose as he looked at Tristan with an unreadable expression on his face.

Tristan said nothing. He turned his attention back to the television and acted as if nothing had happened. And Mokuba did not react with anger, as his brother might have, but simply continued to look at the man for another few seconds before turning his own head away and readjusting his chair.

Joey scowled.

"Uh...Joey...?" Yugi began, but didn't finish the sentence. Joey shot a withering glare at his friend, silencing him instantly, and shot to his feet, stalking toward Tristan like a predator on the hunt.

"Get up," he snapped coldly, and Mokuba blinked, surprised.

Tristan looked up at Joey for a moment before once again turning back to the TV. "Don't think so, no," he said nonchalantly.

Joey gripped his friend's left arm and hauled him to his feet. "Never were strong as me, Tris," he said sharply. "Now follow me."

He dragged Tristan toward the front door. The brunette grabbed his arm back, scowled, but followed Joey outside, grinding his teeth as though he expected to fight.

As Mokuba watched them leave, he thought they would.

* * *

**4.  
**

* * *

"All right, what the hell's your problem, man?"

"Never min-"

"I asked you a fuckin' question!" Joey snarled, stepping up so that his face was pressed nearly against Tristan's own. His brown eyes blazed, and Tristan took an involuntary step backward, nearly falling off the porch. "Now quit bein' a little bitch and answer it!"

Tristan looked as though he didn't _want _to be intimidated by his friend, but was rather obviously failing. Nonetheless, he regained his footing and pushed the blond away. "Back off, Joey."

"Save it!" Joey shot back. "Your mama taught you better'n to jus' stare at somebody after ya clock 'em in the fuckin' nose!"

Tristan quirked an eyebrow, frowning. "What do you care?"

Joey's scowl deepened. "If it'd been Kaiba? I prob'ly wouldn't. But it ain't. Jus' 'cuz he's got the same last name don't mean he's guilty o' nuttin'."

"Tch."

Joey growled incoherently and gripped Tristan by his shirt, pulling him forward. "So _what?"_ he snapped. "Am I a drunk 'cuz I got my dad's name? Hm? _That_ it?"

Tristan swallowed somewhat nervously. "...Of course not."

"So?"

Joey waited, releasing his grip on his friend's shirt and crossing his arms over his own, looking like he fully intended to stand there until the dawn of the Apocalypse if he had to.

Tristan was suddenly angry.

"_You _don't act like your dad's a goddamn hero!"

Joey scoffed. "'At's 'cuz he _wasn't_. He was a lazy, worthless sack o' booze 'n cheese puffs. You still ain't gainin' any ground, here."

Tristan scoffed in turn. "Oh, c'mon! Like it don't piss you off!"

"Kaiba pisses me off," Joey replied. "Mokuba don't."

"He acts like the guy's a saint!" Tristan cried, throwing out his arms in exasperation. "Like he's never done a _damn _thing wrong in his entire frickin' life!"

"To Mokuba, he hasn't. What's that gotta do with us?"

"How he treats _us _should matter!"

Joey raised an eyebrow, and his eyes glinted dangerously. _"Should?"_ he repeated scathingly. "My dad _should _have gotten a goddamn job. My mom _should _give a shit about me. And you _should _lay off a little kid jus' tryna make a couple friends."

"If he wants to be friends with me," Tristan hissed, "then he's gonna hafta admit that his brother's an asshole."

Joey laughed bitterly. "Oh, well, don't _you _drive a bargain? How 'bout _you _admit that _you're _bein' a _dick?"_

"Screw off."

"You're bein' just as much an asshole to Mokuba as Kaiba is to us. And _you're _the one makin' demands?"

"Why're you defending that little-"

"Because he's a _kid, _Tris," Joey cut him off, "and he don't deserve this shit you're pullin' on him."

"I...don't like kids," Tristan said, somewhat defensively.

"Ch'yeah," Joey snorted. "Sure. _That's _why. Look, Tris, you _really _wanna give Kaiba ammo, here? He already just about hates us. You think treatin' his precious baby brother like shit's gonna make 'im write you a goddamn love letter?"

Tristan stared as if he couldn't believe he was hearing this. "Why should I give a damn what _Kaiba _thinks of-"

Joey barked a laugh as if _he _couldn't believe _he _was hearing this. "'Cuz he can beat the fuckin' _hell _out of both of us at once, _that's _why!" he all but shouted. "And he's rich enough to get away with it!"

"Let him try."

Joey smacked his forehead. "Oh, for the love of Christ, Tristan, shut up! You think I _like _admittin' Kaiba's stronger'n me? I don't. But it's true. First thing ya learn when yer on your own 'round here is to pick yer goddamn battles."

Tristan scoffed and turned his head. "Whatever."

Joey's teeth clenched, and so did his fists. "Tristan...knock this _shit_ off. Mokuba's just tryna branch out, open up. He came to _us, _and Kaiba let him."

"Yeah, and fuckin' threatened us."

Joey wanted to punch him; his arm flinched upward as if he fully intended to. "Do you remember what I told you 'n Duke when ya first met Serenity?" he asked savagely.

Tristan blinked. "...You said if we came onto her, you'd kill us."

_"Eh?"_ Joey's eyes went wide.

"Oh, that's different! You were just lookin' out for your..."

Tristan stopped, and Joey slapped him upside the head. "Ah-_ha!" _the blond snapped. "Ding _god_damn ding, you _idiot!"_

Tristan scowled. "Defending Kaiba, now? Not really your style, is it, Joey?"

"I'm tellin' you to back off," Joey said sharply. "Mokuba _ain't _his brother, and don't gotta _admit _anything, to any of us. The kid ain't stupid. He _knows _his precious Niisama ain't perfect. Are _we?"_

The fire finally seemed to have gone out of Tristan's argument. He glanced sheepishly at the ground. "...No."

"Then who the _hell're_ we to demand perfection?"

"...Fine."

Joey shouldered past the brunette and started to make his way back to the shop's front door. As he did, he turned. "Mokuba's a good kid," he said. "I like him, and if he wants t' be my friend, then I'm sure's hell gonna be his."

Tristan didn't respond.

"...Don't make me choose, Tristan," Joey continued, his voice low and somber, without a trace of anger anymore. "'Cuz right now, the scales ain't in your favor."

He walked inside.

* * *

**5.  
**

* * *

Tristan didn't come back inside for about fifteen minutes.

When he did, he didn't go back to the couch, but paced near the front counter, as if trying to think through something. Every so often, he glanced over at the other three, who had moved on from Jenga to a board game Yugi had made recently for a project.

Mokuba turned every so often to look at him, and whenever their eyes met, Tristan immediately averted his gaze. Eventually, the boy stopped, and focused on the game, wondering what it was he had done to make him so angry.

Surely, he thought, if Tristan were angry at him for something, wouldn't Joey be, too? But Joey wasn't. On the contrary, Joey was as friendly and full of laughter as Mokuba had ever seen him, and it was a nice, comforting feeling to know that he was allowed to take part in that laughter. To join in. To know that the laughter wouldn't stop on his account, like it had in the beginning.

Yugi, too, was having fun, and somehow Mokuba knew that they weren't putting on a show for his benefit, so as to keep Seto from retaliating. The atmosphere was light, and honest, and fun.

Except...

He turned again when he sensed that Tristan had begun walking, and watched as the brunette strode up to the table. Not just the table, but specifically toward Mokuba, and the boy half-expected to be punched.

Instead, Tristan looked down at him and sighed, hands flat at his sides, tugging at his jeans. "Uh...look, Mokuba. I...I, uh...well...fuck. I, uh...I'm sorry. A'right? Your nose okay?"

Mokuba blinked, surprised, and nodded. "Uh...yeah. Fine. Thanks. It was...just an accident."

"Right, right. Accident...hey, uh...we ain't, uh...got off on the right foot, I guess, so...um...start over?"

He held out a hand.

"Sure," Mokuba said, and shook it.

"I'm Tristan Taylor," the brunette said. "Sometimes I'm an asshole."

"Mokuba Kaiba," the boy replied. "Sometimes I live with one."

There was a beat of silence as the offhanded, nonchalant comment sank in. Tristan blinked, face blank for a good few seconds, and the handshake fell when his hand dropped limply back to his side.

And then he laughed.

Joey and Yugi joined in.

And Mokuba grinned.

Because he knew that they were friends, now.

* * *

**END**

* * *

_**I have taken certain liberties with Tristan's (or Honda's, if that's your thing) personality, here, but I feel that I have license to do that, because as characters go, he's not exactly developed. As you can tell just by looking at the preceding chapter, the guy lightens up after a while, but I thought it prudent to have this budding friendship have at least a bit of a rocky start, because the gap between Kaiba and the others is rather long, and building a bridge isn't exactly easy. But that is not to say it is especially difficult, because blood and mutual devotion aside, Seto and Mokuba are most certainly not the same breed of animal, if you take my meaning.**_

_**With Joey, I have attempted - as I have been doing for quite some time now - to merge his comical, laid back persona as seen in the second series anime during which most of the story takes place (beginning, of course, with Duelist Kingdom), with the hard-edged back-alley brawler we all know he was in that mythical first series, often called Season Zero, that never aired in English. They're very different characters, and I don't think that's fair. It doesn't give Joey justice, I think, and so I'm trying to fight that. You won't see the complete goofball sidekick here. You may see a bit of fun and laughing, in fact you'll probably see a lot of it, but behind that you have to remember:**_

_**Joey Wheeler can kick your ass.  
**_


	6. The Boys I

_**This is quickly becoming my favorite story to work on, and I wonder perhaps if it's because it's so...normal. This, I think, marks the first time I've tried to put the characters of my favorite childhood anime into a truly believable context. Not to say it won't have its share of flair. I have some tricks up my sleeve. But as I said in the first chapter, my goal here is to shed light on them. I'm sure you've realized by now that my focus, as always, is Seto and Mokuba, but I have plans to extend to the other members of the cast. One plan, in particular, I'm very excited to work on.**_

_**This story is the first of many multi-parters, and currently the shortest at two parts. I do this to retain an episodic structure, because the more I work on this story, the more I realize that it feels more like an anime than a novel. I'm pleased with this, to be honest. I hope that you are, too.**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

"Y'ever...wonder what he's gonna end up like?"

Seto was sorely tempted to tell Joey that just because they happened to be on almost-civil terms with each other now didn't mean he had an open invitation to converse with him whenever he wanted, but reminded himself that the blond was essentially providing Mokuba with a free bodyguard.

So, for Mokuba's sake, he held his tongue and said instead, "...What?"

Joey looked up and shrugged. "Well, like...how he's gonna look. What he's gonna do. How he's gonna act. Y'know, all that stuff. Ever...cross your mind?"

Seto was, again, tempted to write the question off as mindlessly idiotic, but nonetheless found himself considering it. After a bit of thought, he finally answered:

"...Perhaps more than is healthy."

"Yeah?" came the reply, in a lighter tone than Seto thought he had ever heard from Joey (directed at _him, _anyway). "Me, too."

Seto shot him a confused, almost disgusted look.

Joey caught himself. "Uh...y'know. With...with Serenity. It's like...like she was still this little girl last week. Y'know? Wearin' a frilly pink dress with some cartoon character on her li'l princess shoes, wavin' a toy magic wand around like she was a fairy. And now...well, she don't visit much, really, but every time...just...I mean, she's gettin' offers for _dates _now, man! The hell do I do 'bout _that?"_

Seto raised an eyebrow. "Beat them," he said dryly.

Joey actually laughed. "I like that plan! Simple stuff. But seriously...I mean, you go through those kinds o' thoughts 'bout Mokuba? Like, what his first girlfriend's gonna be like? I swear, man, I hope the first guy Ren goes out with ain't a damn thing like me. I might have to kill 'im."

Seto smirked, but it wasn't his usual, "I'm better than you are" smirk. It was more a...smirk of shared opinion. Like he knew precisely what Joey was talking about.

"I remember..." Seto found himself saying, perhaps just as (if not more) surprised at Joey to hear it, "...teaching him to walk. Hearing his first words."

"...Oh, c'mon, ya gotta tell me. What were they? I wanna make fun of 'im."

Seto's eyes narrowed, but he answered. "My name."

Joey blinked, taken aback. "Ah, hell. That ain't funny. That's just...that's too cute for words. Shit, man. So...so you...really raised the kid by yerself, didn'tcha?"

"I did."

Joey leaned back in his chair and considered this. "So...you really _are..._like, Mokuba's dad. Aren'tcha?"

"I am."

He said this without emotion. It was simple fact. Joey may as well have asked him if Mokuba were left- or right-handed. But when the blond looked up to regard Seto's face, he saw a kind of fierce, blazing pride there. Defiant, as if he thought Joey might try to refute the claim.

"Whatcha think he's gonna do? Think he'll take over the 'family business' or somethin'?"

Seto shrugged. "He may. And if he does, I will be grateful for that. But if he does not, then that is his choice. A part of me hopes that he _does _choose another path."

"Want 'im to...be 'is own man, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Well," Joey said, chuckling, "whatever it is, I betcha he'll be good at it. That kid's got better grades'n I ever dreamed of."

Seto smirked again, and that angry pride was back when he said, "He still worries because they are not as good as mine were."

"Huh," Joey huffed. "You one o' them straight-A, 4.7 GPA kinda guys? That it?"

"Yes."

Again, there was no emotion, no arrogance, in this proclamation. It was simply the way things were. And for the first time, Joey Wheeler wondered just what sort of childhood this teenage executive - for he _did _think that Seto was still technically a teenager...nineteen, if he remembered correctly - must have had, to view perfect grades as simply a fact of life.

"Good kid," Joey said, unsure of what else to say.

And Seto did not smirk; he smiled.

"Yes...he is."

* * *

**2.**

* * *

They called themselves "The Boys."

When Connor first told Mokuba about them, he was instantly suspicious. They were a group of...boys (surprise, surprise) both from his and Connor's middle school and the high school across the street. There were about seven or eight of them, ranging from nine to fourteen years old.

Most of them - six - were at or near Mokuba's own age. William Hunter, the fourteen-year-old, was the group's leader. The nine-year-old was named Owen Gregor; a squat, bitter little troll who had the petulant, whiny aura of having been spoiled since day one.

It was Hunter who had introduced Connor to his Boys. Mokuba remembered the name, and figured William to be the son of Yonick R. H. Hunter, a forty-year-old defense attorney and one-time associate of his brother's. He did not mention this to Connor.

"Oh, c'mon," Connor said, the week after having been introduced to The Boys when he finally decided to mention them to Mokuba. "I've been talking to Will and his friends for a while. They're pretty cool. Most of them are wealthy, like you."

Mokuba had resisted the urge to laugh.

He really hadn't wanted to meet a gang of spoiled little snobs (which he was _not, _thank you very much, because Niisama did not allow him to be), and figured that they would be boring, but he nevertheless found himself following Connor out to a construction site after school that day.

Mokuba wasn't sure what it was about The Boys that had set off his radar from the very beginning (he would know as soon as he actually saw them), but a part of him thought that he was simply letting his brother's overwhelming misanthropy (which, incidentally, was one of Mokuba's favorite words, because it just sounded funny) affect him too much.

But Connor had been excited, and so Mokuba had gone along. Who knew? Perhaps it _would _be worthwhile. He certainly hoped so, but he highly doubted it. He didn't bother asking why they were to meet Hunter at a construction site, of all things. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

As he walked, Mokuba slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans, running the fingers of his right hand over the keys of his cell phone, hoping that he would have no need to use it.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

The construction site was owned by Kaiba-Corp.

Mokuba couldn't remember what specific function Seto had planned for the place, but whatever it was, it was big. Big enough for The Boys to have made it onto the site undetected. Mokuba, of course, didn't need to worry about being told to leave; his face was well enough known, and he _was _the vice-president, eleven years old or not.

William Hunter was waiting for them. He had wavy brown hair, green eyes, slightly pale skin, and an air of self-importance that instantly grated on the young Kaiba's nerves. The thing was, though, that Hunter wasn't nearly as bad as the rest of his Boys, who rallied behind their leader and looked as though they were the followers of some great military general, their arrogance borne not only from money but from the assertion that they were untouchable.

Because of Hunter.

"Hey..." the Head Boy said silkily, putting a slimy hand on Connor's shoulder. Mokuba felt a sudden urge to smack it away, but resisted it. No need to antagonize them _this _soon. They looked annoying, but there was still a verdict to be made.

"Hi, Will," Connor said with a grin. "Uh...this is Mokuba."

Mokuba didn't smile, nor did he even remove his hands from his pockets when Hunter looked over at him with a toothy grin. He wasn't in much of a mood to be especially friendly.

Most of Hunter's Boys were glaring at him, playing at being intimidating, and Mokuba thought that he might still attempt politeness on Connor's behalf, but upon _seeing_ this group of which his best friend was so enamored, Mokuba felt no need to go any further than that.

He didn't know their names. Not all of them. But Owen Gregor looked as if he were preparing to eat him, and Eduardo "Scooter" Rodriguez - thirteen years old, loud, obnoxious, and irritating, even by Connor's admission - was sticking out his lower lip and puffing out his chest as if he thought Mokuba should quiver and kneel at the sight of him.

So...yeah. He'd be polite, but that was as far as he'd go.

"Hello, Mokuba," Hunter said, and he seemed to have decided the same thing. His tone was passably amiable (barely), but the wide, spit-shining smile on his lips didn't match the rest of his face. "Nice t' meetcha."

"We've met before," Mokuba said coolly.

"Have we?" Hunter asked, seeming surprised. "Forgive me."

_Not on your life, _Mokuba thought.

Connor looked anxiously optimistic, and the black-haired heir of Kaiba-Corp felt bad that he couldn't like these new friends of his. But Mokuba could tell that this would never work. This wasn't a group of friends; it was a gang, pure and simple.

And Connor had been unwittingly roped in as their newest scapegoat.

At the thought of it, Mokuba's face darkened.

Hunter had probably singled Connor Brinkley out on purpose. And as Mokuba thought of that, he felt a sudden surge of indignant, protective fury not unlike the sort his brother had felt so many, many times.

And the weird thing was...it felt good.

A smirk rose on Mokuba Kaiba's lips as he finally said, in a voice that easily betrayed the fact that he was lying:

"Sure, Will. No problem."

* * *

**4.**

* * *

The mood of The Boys darkened further.

They sensed something about Brinkley's friend, and the few of them who had actually met the boy's older brother - or, rather, _seen _him, as Seto Kaiba would have had no time to waste on any of _them _- understood what it was:

This Mokuba kid couldn't be fooled.

Though eight years younger than his legal guardian, Mokuba had learned the same lessons Seto had, and was anything but naïve. Not anymore. The easy target whose name was Brinkley had been simple, but Mokuba had proven, in the first few moments of meeting them, that he would not only be the precise opposite of simple; he would be impossible.

Mokuba saw through William Hunter as easily as Hunter had seen through Connor.

But even Connor was observant enough to have caught wind of the instantly hostile atmosphere, and his hope that things would go well between his new friends and his best friend all but evaporated. He bit his lower lip, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt.

"I guess you must be wondering why I picked _this _place for us to meet up, huh, Con?" Hunter asked, and at that nickname Mokuba's face twitched, but he said nothing.

"Well...yeah," Connor admitted uncertainly.

Mokuba looked entirely uninterested. Hunter saw this, and it seemed to irritate him. Scooter Rodriguez, too, didn't seem to care much for the black-haired boy's expression.

"Well, buddy," Hunter said, grinning his (over)confident grin, "here's the thing...see, we all want you in. You're a good guy, Con, and I think you'll fit right into our little group here. You, too, Mokuba," he seemed to add as an afterthought, sounding not the least bit sincere.

"Right," Mokuba muttered.

"Sure," said another boy, one whose name Mokuba didn't know, and he sounded at least marginally friendly. "I seen you around, Mokuba. You're Seto Kaiba's brother, right?"

"Mm," Mokuba mumbled, giving a curt, detached sort of nod.

"See?" Hunter chuckled. "We're all alike, here. Now, Con's family might not have much money, but...well, neither does yours, does it, Scoot?"

"Enh," Scooter Rodriguez snapped.

Hunter chuckled.

"It's the divine secret of the Blah-Blah Brotherhood," Mokuba muttered under his breath. "They lets in the po' folk."

Connor snickered.

"What's that?"

Mokuba resisted the urge to roll his eyes at that particular question, and the all too familiar tone with which it had been asked. He shrugged, waving his hands in a meaningless gesture.

"Nothing."

"...So yeah, we wantcha in, y'know, but...gotta make sure. Make sure you're made of the right stuff, right? So, uh...that's why we're here."

"If you want us 'in,'" Mokuba muttered, "then let us in. Proof will come. If you don't, then I'm leaving. I really appreciate you guys trying to glare me into a coma, but trust me; it doesn't work all that well."

"Yeah," Connor said, even though it was clear that he was nervous. "C'mon, guys, why are you so angry? I thought we were all friends, here? Or did I miss the definition of 'friend' somewhere?"

Hunter and Mokuba both blinked, somewhat surprised.

Hunter glanced back at his Boys. "All right guys, knock it off. If he's Con's friend, he gets the same fair shot as anybody. Save the crap for other fish."

It was clear that Hunter didn't much like giving this order, and The Boys liked it even less, but their frowns vanished - with effort. They stopped looking at Mokuba, and turned their attention to Connor.

Connor turned an apologetic eye to Mokuba, who smiled at him.

He winked.

"Okay, okay...still, you guys gotta do something for us, let us know what you're about, before it's official. We're...like a band of brothers, right? We wanna know if you're our brothers are not."

"Oh, _goodie," _Mokuba muttered. "I've been in the market for a new brother."

Connor laughed.

"Y'know, for somebody asking us to be nice, you're not helping much, Mokuba."

Mokuba grinned. "And for somebody acting like he's the leader of this band of brothers, you're not policing them very well. How about we stop this game of who-can-scare-who and you tell us what we're s'posed to do here?"

"Scooter!" Hunter snarled. "Stop that damn gangster act! We get it, your lip's big and your chest is impressive. Are you _trying _to prove him right?"

Scooter scowled, hunching low and sucking his lip into his mouth, seeming to chew on it. "...Ngh."

Mokuba got the feeling that Eduardo Rodriguez wasn't very well-liked even in his inner circle, and wondered why he was tolerated. But on looking at the dusty-skinned would-be street thug again, he realized that he didn't really want to know why.

He didn't want to know anything about Scooter Rodriguez.

"Okay, then," Hunter said, glancing at Scooter with irritation. "Well, see, here's the deal; there's a guy working here. And, uh...we don't get along so well, we Boys and this guy."

"Guy's a little _bitch," _Scooter put in, and Mokuba almost laughed at how ridiculously forced the curse sounded. It seemed rather obvious that this thirteen-year-old Mafioso was not allowed to speak that way in his home, and he made up for it by overcompensating (badly) when he wasn't there.

"His name's..." Hunter said, "Brian? Yeah. I think that's it. Brian Tuscadero."

"Tusca-_fag_-o," said Scooter.

Mokuba sighed long-sufferingly.

None of the other Boys seemed to appreciate this "addition," either. But they said nothing, and Hunter didn't look at him again. Scooter noticed that nobody laughed, but smirked anyway.

"And Tuscadero, it seems, was a bit forgetful today," Hunter continued without a hitch, and gestured.

Mokuba saw a power drill on top of a pile of wood.

"So what we wanna do," Hunter said, "is have a little fun with him. One o' you guys take that drill, there. And, uh...let's say...put it up there on the top floor? But...don't get caught, huh? That's the thing. Can't get caught."

"Ooh!" Mokuba cried in faux excitement. "I feel _dangerous _already! Count me out of this circus act, Hunter. I'm not stealing some guy's tools."

"Oh, no...not _steal _it. Who you think we are? We none of us have reason to _steal. _But, uh...whichever one grabs it? The other guy will go up next and, uh...maybe sabotage it? Y'know...take out a piece or two. Might remind ol' Tuscadero to keep his stuff where it's safe."

"Oh, right," Mokuba muttered. _"That_ makes me feel better."

"I'm not breaking someone else's stuff," Connor said.

"Well, then," Hunter said, "maybe you should go first, Con. Let Mokie, here-"

_"Don't..._call me that."

Hunter blinked, surprised at the cold danger in Mokuba's tone. But there was no questioning the seriousness of that command. Mokuba's face had gone from simply hostile to outright angry, and it was clear that Mokuba was learning – quite adeptly – from his brother. Connor had a feeling, as he saw the way his friend was standing, the way he seemed to be ten seconds away from pouncing on Hunter and tearing out his throat, that the nickname "Mokie" was off-limits even to him. He wondered why, but only distantly. He knew, somehow, that Mokuba wouldn't answer.

Hunter was the first to recover.

"...Right. Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Let _Mokuba _do the last part."

Mokuba scoffed. "Uh...no."

Hunter looked confused again, as if he honestly couldn't comprehend what he'd heard. "What do you mean, no? It's easy. Just this little thing for us, and you're in. Just gotta see if you guys got the right stuff to fit in."

"No," Mokuba repeated. "I'm not stealing _or _destroying someone else's property. It's pointless, it's stupid, and I'm _not_ disappointing my brother by taking part in it. You aren't worth that. I'm _out_, Hunter. I'm not doing it."

Scooter scowled, and puffed out his lip again. "You a _bitch_, Mokuba?" he asked, and he might have sounded intimidating if Mokuba had been a normal kid. But he wasn't. "That it? Too damn chicken?"

"Oh, yes. I'm petrified. Bite me, Rodriguez. I'm not interested. My brother taught me better than this."

"Yeah, yeah," Scooter snapped with a wide, gap-toothed grin. "Taughtcha _better, _huh? You sayin' yer better'n us, Moku-_bitch?_ Huh? Huh?"

Mokuba's eyes were hard. His hands were still in his pockets, and he pressed a button on his phone. After two seconds, he pressed another, and held it down.

"...That's exactly what I'm saying, you brainless shit."

* * *

**5.**

* * *

Seto started at the sound of his phone, but only slightly.

He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and glanced at it, but before he could answer, the ring stopped. He frowned, and Joey raised an eyebrow at him.

"Wrong number?" the blond asked, realizing perhaps for the first time just how alien this situation was; the fact that he asked the question, and perhaps the further fact that Seto _didn't_ immediately snap at him to mind his own damned business, showed him just _how _alien.

"No..." Seto murmured, and Joey thought that maybe the reason he _hadn't _been snapped at was because the young CEO was distracted. He punched a button. "It was Mokuba. But he hung up."

He put the phone to his ear.

"Maybe the kid pushed the wrong button," Joey said. "Hung up when he saw it."

"He doesn't call my personal number often," Seto said, and Joey thought this was a bit strange. "He...doesn't like to bother me. If he's calling, there's a reason."

His frown deepened as he pulled the phone away. "Straight to voicemail. He turned it off."

"Battery run out, maybe?" Joey asked. "Call again. Could be a glitch're somethin'. Happens to me all'a time."

Seto did so, but shook his head again. "No. He turned it off. And if the battery did run out, then he still wants to talk to me. Something's happened."

"You sure you ain't lookin' too far into this?" Joey asked. "Yer soundin' kinda paranoid to me, Kaiba. Calm down. He's prob'ly fine. Even 'at Matt prick ain't stupid enough to pull some shit _this _fast."

"No," Seto said flatly. "He called me. And now his phone's off. He called for a reason, and I have to find out what." He punched in another number, and Joey heard the ring. On the second, there was an answer.

_"Master Kaiba," _came a muffled, male voice.

"Roland," Seto replied, "Mokuba just sent a call, but didn't answer. Now his phone is turned off. Find him."

_"At once, Master Kaiba." _Seto waited, and about thirty seconds later, Roland's voice came back. _"The last call...that Young Master Mokuba sent was...from a...ah! The construction site of the new hospital, sir."_

Seto quirked an eyebrow. "...Right."

_"The call was made...two minutes ago? Thereabout?"_

"That's it."

_"Very good. So, uh...shall I send someone there, sir?"_

"You do that," Seto said. "I'm on my way."

He hung up his phone and stood up, sweeping over to the front door of the Turtle Game Shop and out toward his car. Joey sped to catch up with him, looking confused.

"Hey, c'mon, Kaiba, you sure you ain't...?"

"No," Seto said sharply, "I am _not_ sure. But if something _has_ happened, what sort of excuse is, 'I didn't want to seem paranoid'?"

Joey stopped, startled, and stared at Seto for a moment. Seto looked back, and his eyes were simultaneously cold and blazing. Joey was suddenly reminded that this was a man he had butted heads with several times, and further reminded by the ice-fire set of his eyes that Seto had always come out on top.

He sighed, realizing that it had happened again, and shook his head incredulously as he slipped into the passenger's seat of Seto's Veyron. Seto didn't say a word.

_Why the hell's he always right? _Joey thought irritably.

* * *

**END**

* * *

_**Maybe you've noticed the same thing I have. I don't think it's any real surprise, but Mokuba always seems to be much more...assertive, shall we say, when he's by himself. When Seto isn't around, specifically. The reason for this, as I've tried to replicate here and plan to do again in the future, is that he feels safe with Seto. And, much like his Niisama, when he**_** doesn't**_** feel safe, he puts up a wall. Seto's wall, more often than not, seems to be sheer stubbornness, such as in the face of magic. The existence of magic threatens Seto's equilibrium, and so he obstinately holds to the convention that it doesn't exist so that he can retain it.**_

_**Mokuba is doing something similar here, out of survival instinct. As mentioned in chapter 4, he's learned that the most important thing to never do in the face of a threat is to show that it's working. So, he's doing what Niisama would do: mocking it. In the absence of the man himself, Mokuba is calling on his memory to help him through this rough patch. I think that's what he's always done. **_

_**I'm sure you realize, though, what happens next. It's Niisama to the rescue (along with a sidekick this time around), folks. So tune in next time. You'll be glad you did.  
**_


	7. The Boys II

_**Welcome to part 2 of "The Boys." I came up with this scenario when I came to realize that for all the conflict Mokuba has dealt with in his young life, he hasn't really come face-to-face with that harbinger of emotional destruction that most kids deal with: bullies. Then again, maybe there aren't many who have the gall to pick on the richest kid in the school. I'm not sure.**_

_**In any case, as I mentioned before, this section is only 2 chapters long, as opposed to some of my later stories that will take 3 or even 4 to complete. Still, I had a lot of fun with it, and I think it shows an important element to both Mokuba's and Seto's characters. And that's what I'm doing this for in the first place, after all.**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

Scooter Rodriguez stared incredulously, clearly not comprehending the idea that some little brat—never minding that Mokuba was only two years younger than Scooter himself—could possibly not only be unafraid of his clearly superior thuggish-ness, but _insult _him.

He did not understand what _real_ confidence was.

"Hey!" Hunter snapped, and Mokuba didn't bat an eye. "You better watch your mouth, Kaiba! And how about you remember something: you came to _us. _So show some respect."

_"Respect?"_ Mokuba asked sharply. "I don't know what sort of power you dorks think you have, but I _respect _people that earn it. And if you think _that—" _here he waved a contemptuous hand at Scooter "—has earned my respect, then you're about as stupid as he looks."

Too busy glaring at Hunter, Mokuba didn't notice the awed, nigh-worshipful expression on Connor's face. The blond boy had known, almost right from the start, that William Hunter and Mokuba Kaiba would never get along. There had been an instant animosity that somehow just _felt _like it would never go away. But now, Connor realized something:

Even if Mokuba didn't force Connor to make a choice, his brother certainly would. And as he watched the young Kaiba work, he realized that there wasn't any choice to make, anyway.

The choice had already been made.

"Did you...just call me a _dork?" _Hunter asked.

"No," Mokuba sneered, "I asked you out to dinner."

"Now listen, here, you—"

"Little punk? Brat? _Bitch? _I've heard it all, you know. I've heard worse. You _don't _scare me, Hunter. So unless you've got something new up your sleeves, I'm not exactly interested. So far, I'm just bored."

"You _better _be scared o—" Scooter started, complete with nonsensical hand gestures. Hunter shook his head, clearly getting fed up with his yapping guard dog, but said nothing.

"Aaaaahhhh..." Mokuba "cried," holding up his hands, "oh, _no_...the big, bad wolf is gonna blow my house down..."

Connor laughed, and Mokuba wondered if Scooter Rodriguez would actually explode. Hunter didn't look particularly enthused, either. A couple of the others seemed somewhat amused, but the looks on their faces showed that they didn't want to admit it.

"You might want to remember," Hunter said, straining to keep his voice calm in order to sound frightening (and failing), "that your school's in _my _neighborhood. I _own _that place, okay? So you can chicken out of this if you want, but it sure would be a shame if everybody found out what a little pansy the great Mokuba Kaiba really is."

Mokuba snickered, looking up at the sky. "That's awesome, Hunter. Really. But I really couldn't care less what you and your lapdogs think of me. You aren't worth worrying about."

"Aren't_ worth_—"

Hunter held a hand out to silence Scooter. "That might be," he said, and he almost sounded as if he _weren't_ scrambling for purchase, "but...you do care about your friend...don't you? You don't _really _want to bring Brinkley down with you...do you?"

"Oh, so now it's _Brinkley," _Mokuba said with a smirk. "What happened to 'Con'?"

Connor frowned. "You know what? Never mind. This is stupid. Let's go, Mokuba."

"Hey, hey, _hey!"_ Hunter said sharply. "What's this? What is this? C'mon, man, you're one of us! You're not backin' out already, are ya? For some...punk?"

"This 'some punk' doesn't abandon me based on stupid decisions...like showing up here. Like listening to _you._ He doesn't call me 'Brinkley' when he's pissed off at somebody, doesn't use me as a bargaining chip. Doesn't ask me to _steal."_

"Yer _both _bitches!" Scooter snarled.

"Cute, Scooter, cute," Mokuba said. "You know big-boy words. Good for you. Maybe Hunter will give you a treat and pat you on the head for it. Go on, boy. Sit."

"Smart guy, huh? You think you can take all'a us, Moku-bitch? _Huh?"_

Mokuba's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"...Call me that again, Rodriguez. We'll find out."

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"Holy...what _is _this?"

"A hospital," Seto answered without looking at Joey. "It is, I am sure you realize, unfinished. But what this is, aside from the fact that it is where my brother has found himself, is unimportant."

"Whatcha think he's doin' _here?" _Joey asked, raising an eyebrow. "Don't think the kid would wanna come to this place if he was lookin' for a band-aid."

"I do not know," Seto said distractedly, and his voice held the faintest tinge of fear-irritation that told the blond he was worried about what he might find.

Joey couldn't blame him. A construction site wasn't exactly the prime place for an eleven-year-old to hang out, and any reason Mokuba might have to be there had a pretty high chance of being the opposite of good.

Was this irony tweaking Seto Kaiba's nose? Joey wondered.

He hoped not.

"Well, don't see 'im nowhere obvious," he said. "Guessin' he weren't callin' for a ride."

Seto scowled, none too pleased with Joey's commentary. He said nothing, however, choosing instead to scan the scene in front of him. Striding away from his car, he walked purposefully toward one of the workers, a tan-skinned twenty-something with a shirt tied about his head like a bandana. The man looked up.

He stood quickly as Seto approached, and his arm twitched upward a bit as if he'd been about to salute. He settled on wiping his hands on his jeans. "Holy...Seto Kaiba! Sir!"

Seto stopped in front of the man. "My brother is somewhere on this site. Where is he?"

"Uh..." the man blinked at the suddenness, the sharpness, of Seto's tone. He said, "I...I'm not sure, sir. I, uh...think I might'a seen some kids out near the back, over that way, though...sir."

The man pointed behind him.

Seto nodded. "Thank you," he said.

"Yeah," Joey added with a wink and a click of his tongue, "thanks, man." He patted the tanned man on the shoulder as he passed.

The man did not respond, so surprised to have seen his employer's employer that he seemed unable to produce _breath, _much less speech, and would later be frustrated but quite relieved that he had not asked for an autograph.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

"You're just...going to let this happen, huh?" Hunter asked.

Connor frowned. "Let _what _happen?"

"We're buddies, Con," came the reply, sounding half-pleading, half-scathing, "so why're you letting this guy screw that up? If he don't like it, why's that matter?"

"Mokuba was my friend first," Connor said, in a voice that was quite a bit stronger, braver, than was usual for him. He was usually rather meek, soft-spoken. But now, apparently taking from Mokuba's example, he was stern, and unwavering. "I trust him. If he doesn't like you guys, then I think there's probably good reason for that."

"How 'bout da fac' dat _we _don' like _him, _huh?"

"He doesn't like _you _because you're a raging moron," Connor snapped at Scooter. He noted, amused despite the fear that he was trying so hard to mask, that there wasn't really an outcry of objection to this.

"What the _hell—"_

_"Shut it,_ Scoot," Hunter snarled, "you're proving them right, for Christ's sakes! Just...shut up and let me talk."

Connor took an unconscious step toward Mokuba, who seemed plainly amused by the whole thing. Mokuba smirked as he watched Hunter, and it looked so much like his brother that it seemed like an optical illusion.

Mokuba's hands slowly slipped out of his pockets, either in preparation to fight or to run. Connor wasn't sure which that the young Kaiba would choose, but he hoped that they would run. Connor knew how to run; he had no clue how to fight.

The blond boy thought that perhaps he should fix that problem at some point, in case something like this situation happened again.

"You can't just walk away from us, Brinkley," Hunter said coldly. "That's not how we do things. We invited you into the circle, and now you're backing out of your end of that deal? For some girly, pansy little _punk?"_

"Most people seem to _like _those of us who don't _steal," _Mokuba muttered. "I think I feel better being a pansy. At least I won't end up in prison."

"You're not pulling some high-hung moral garbage with me," Hunter replied sharply, "you're just chickening out."

"Right. I'm shaking."

This time, Mokuba didn't bother to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Hunter's eyebrow twitched; Scooter puffed out his chest.

"So, are you idiots done trying to intimidate me?" Mokuba asked. "I told you already. I'm not scared of you. Pegasus Crawford couldn't break me; _you_ don't stand a chance. You can think you're tough all you want. Truth is, the _real _threats in my life could crush any of _you_ without blinking."

He said this coldly, with a completely neutral expression on his face, and it struck Connor that he didn't know a single thing about his best friend's past.

He was suddenly scared to know.

"You think so...huh?"

"A'right, ladies, _break it up!"_

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Brent Tuscadero wasn't an especially brave man.

At least, he didn't think he was.

In fact, his current position kind of pointed out to him the fact that he was rather cowardly. C'mon, lying around hiding from a bunch of middle schoolers, waiting for them to steal his drill so he'd finally get them on tape in the act? So he could crawl back to Oliver Richards and tell him, see, see? I was right. They _were _taking my stuff! Bullies! _Bullies!_

He drew in a deep breath and forced it out in a frustrated huff. This was ridiculous. What was he doing? Those kids were going to get clobbered, and what was he going to do about it? Just sit here?

"...the _real _threats in my life could crush any of you without blinking," the black-haired boy was saying. Tuscadero knew that this one was Mokuba Kaiba, heir to the Kaiba Corporation. He didn't know the other boy. But did that really matter? Was he going to just...sit there? And watch them get the crap kicked out of them by a bunch of preppy, snobby little brats like Will Hunter and "The Boys"?

He got to his feet.

"You think so...huh?" Hunter was asking.

Tuscadero was about to step out into the open and call out to the little punk when he saw a young man with blond hair and a green jacket stride out toward them, a cocky grin on his face.

"A'right, ladies, _break it up!"_

The blond man was probably a teenager, but he still towered over Hunter and looked like someone who was no stranger to a fight. The blond was dressed casually; his jacket was actually just an over-shirt; he was dressed in blue jeans and sneakers.

But behind him...

Walking slowly, almost strolling, followed by a pair of men that looked like they'd fit right into the headquarters of the FBI, was the Man of the Hour himself.

Seto Kaiba, in all his Mafia boss splendor, watched the scene before him like he was wondering which of these gladiators would die first for his amusement.

Brent Tuscadero stood there, in his hiding spot, and couldn't move.

* * *

**5.**

* * *

Mokuba and Connor both jumped.

It was Joey who spoke, with a dangerous glint in his eyes and a wide, sneering grin on his face that made Mokuba's heart soar. And as if his newly instated volunteer bodyguard didn't do enough to lift his spirits, he saw that behind the blond, looking as immaculately irritated as he always did, was Seto.

The Boys were staring at Joey, but Mokuba stared at his brother. He dared to look relieved, until Seto caught his eyes. As if all the fear that Hunter and his gang had been trying to instill in him was suddenly let out, summoned by the icy gleam of his big brother's eyes, Mokuba suddenly found that his legs didn't want to support him.

It would strike him later that it was rather funny, really. That the game Hunter and The Boys had been trying to play, trying to intimidate him into quailing, could be so easily, so effortlessly, brought out by Seto Kaiba's very presence.

But then Seto turned to William Hunter, and the glare that had so frightened Mokuba magnified one-hundred fold, and _that _had an effect where none of Mokuba's antics had. Hunter went stiff, and his face whitened. He looked like he wanted to find somewhere to hide, to escape from that stare.

"Well, oh, well, boys!" Joey crowed in false (or perhaps it was real) glee, and crossed his arms over his chest. "We jus' been teachin' people lessons all over the place, ain't we? S'like we got a brand new batch o' fresh _idiot _flyin' into the city, huh? Whatcha think, Kaiba?"

"I...do not think that they are new," Seto said, and his tone was deceptively soft. "I would...assume that they are simply stupid."

Mokuba saw it, which meant that Seto of course had seen it; Will Hunter was getting angry. And with him, the rest of The Boys were angry as well.

"Before you ask," Seto said idly, "yes. I just insulted you. And I know that you know it, so do not bother asking. Do not speak, in fact. I am not interested in your pointless prating."

"Who the _f—"_

"Shut the _hell up, _Scooter!" Hunter all but screamed.

Scooter Rodriguez drew in a shocked breath and finally stopped trying to speak. Hunter tried to look stern, but in the face of Seto's cold, almost unfeeling anger he wasn't quite able to. It did Mokuba's heart well to see it, but he didn't dare smile.

"Wheeler."

"Yo?" Joey asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Deal with that idiot."

A wide, sadistic grin rose on the blond's lips, and he walked over to Scooter like some breed of natural predator stalking its prey. "You wanna know who the _fuck _that is?" he asked. "Hm?"

Scooter tried one of his lip-puffing pouts.

Joey's fist _cracked _against that lip, and Scooter Rodriguez went sailing backward into Owen Gregor, and both of them dropped to the ground.

"Don't try that shit with me," Joey snapped. "Real men don't pout, you frickin' dork. 'Specially not if yer tryna act tough. Goddamn moron."

Hunter didn't react. None of them did.

They didn't dare.

"This is done," Seto said sharply. "You are leaving. Now."

"H-Hey," Hunter tried to speak, his voice barely there. "W-We didn't...we didn't..."

"I am the owner of this property," Seto cut him off, "and you are trespassing. Now _leave."_

Joey stepped toward the teen, and when the leader of The Boys didn't respond, he lifted a foot - almost casually - and snapped it against Hunter's chest, knocking him easily onto his backside.

"M-My father's a lawyer!" Hunter squawked. "You...you can't...!"

"My father was a drunk," Joey said flatly. "If you gotta point in there, might be nice if ya found it."

"You...you...!"

"Your father the lawyer," Seto said contemplatively, and Hunter stared at him, "will not be in this city for another two days. And your _babysitter _does not have the money to make bail. Now...leave my property."

And Hunter lost what was left of his confidence.

And he ran.

* * *

**6.**

* * *

"So...which one of you would care to explain this situation to me?" Seto asked, and his tone reminded Mokuba that he had good cause to be worried right now.

Connor blanched. "Uh...um...Mister Kaiba! I...I...it was me. I thought that...they were..."

He stopped trying to talk.

"You knew these boys, then."

"Well...I thought I did," came the sudden reply as Connor realized that simply accepting the blame wasn't going to be enough, that Seto expected an explanation. "They...they seemed...nice. I thought Will was..."

He still couldn't formulate a proper answer.

"Mokuba," Seto said sharply, and Mokuba flinched. The black-haired boy drew in a steadying breath, and looked up fearfully.

"Y-Yes...Niisama?"

"You had to know that these boys were worthless," Seto said. "I know that you have seen that Hunter idiot before. Why are _you_ here?"

"Well...I...Connor wanted...me to meet...them," Mokuba said lamely.

"I thought they would like him!" Connor blurted out. "I thought...I thought that we...we'd all be friends..."

"And meeting them _here _did not strike either of you as _odd?" _Seto asked icily. "On private property, while—"

"But _you _own it!" Mokuba dared to protest.

_"While construction is ongoing?" _Seto snarled, and Mokuba went pale.

"Kids make mistakes, Kaiba," Joey put in. "Jus' wanted to hang wi' some buddies, is all. 'Course, buddies turned out t' be assholes, but how're they s'posed to know that 'til they try? Lay off."

Seto visibly, forcibly, calmed. But it did nothing for Mokuba's mood, for while he was thankful to Joey for intervening on their behalf, he still saw disappointment clearly written on Seto's face, and it cut.

Deep.

"I...I'm sorry, Niisama..."

"Ah...excuse me. Mister Kaiba...sir? If I may speak."

* * *

**7.**

* * *

Seto turned and watched, irritated, as a man approached him.

The man was tall, about six feet even, decently well-muscled and tanned from years of exposure to the sun. His hair was dark, cropped short, and a dark green handkerchief was folded and tied around his forehead.

Seto scowled at him. "And you are...?"

"My name is Brent Tuscadero, sir," the man said.

"And...what would you tell me, then, Brent Tuscadero?"

"Well," Tuscadero began, "that Hunter kid and his punk friends have been swiping my tools for a good two weeks now. Takes me forever to find them. And it's getting to the point where I'm gonna get the axe if it doesn't stop."

Seto's scowl deepened, and he crossed his arms impatiently. Mokuba knew that he was waiting for the point; he wasn't much for sympathy.

"So, uh," Tuscadero continued when he realized Seto was not going to respond, "today's my day off. I...didn't want to take it, but I'm not exactly too high on the boss's priority list right now, so...he wasn't much inclined to give me overtime. Uh...so I thought...well, I borrowed this—" here he lifted a digital camera he held in his left hand "—from my brother, and I put my drill up there. Thought I'd catch 'em in the act, right?"

Seto looked mildly interested now.

"Now, I...I don't wanna interfere with your business, sir, but...I thought maybe you should see this. Before you make any decisions."

He passed the camera to Seto, who flipped out the tiny monitor and began to play back the recording. He looked faintly interested, but also skeptical.

Joey leaned over to watch as well.

* * *

**8.**

* * *

By the time Seto handed back Tuscadero's camera, he was grinning. Joey was laughing. Seto glanced at Mokuba again, and now, instead of disappointment, he saw fierce pride; Seto's eyes shone, practically glowed, with it.

It was a switch so jarring that Mokuba didn't know how to react to it at first. But when Seto held his arm up and out from his side, a faint distance just enough to be sure that it was deliberate, Mokuba rushed over and threw his arms around his brother's waist, relief washing over him like warm water.

Seto ruffled his brother's hair. "I'm sorry, kid," he said softly. "I jumped to a false conclusion. Forgive me?" Mokuba's response wasn't quite a word, but it was sufficient. Seto smiled and pressed a hand against the boy's back. "Good job, little brother," he said.

"Guys did good," Joey put in, still chuckling. "Damn good."

"What would you have done," Seto asked after a moment, "if we had not shown? You would not have been able to handle them all."

"Prob'ly run," Mokuba mumbled, and Connor smiled, looking relieved. "Let 'em think we're chicken. Don' matter. I don't wanna lose any teeth over those clowns."

"Make 'em mad enough t' start swingin'," Joey said, "an' hang 'em out to dry? Hmmm...not too manly, but...y'know? I like it."

"But Niisama came to help," Mokuba said, almost to himself, smiling as he tightened his hold on his brother. He didn't say it, but they heard the added, "like I knew he would," as clearly as if he had.

"Of course," Seto said with another rare smile. "Can't have my vice-president accosted on my own property."

Joey laughed. "Not too good for PR, huh?"

"No."

Connor dared to widen his own smile. "...Thank you, Mister Kaiba, Joey," he said. "I...I thought we were toast. I'm really sorry about this...I thought...I thought that they..."

Seto held up a hand. "No need to explain. _I _should be apologizing. I did not allow you to explain your side of this situation. In fact...why don't I make it up to you? There is a fine restaurant nearby. What would you boys say to a late lunch?"

Mokuba gasped, looking up at his brother in shocked, new reverence. "Brisco's?" he cried.

"Of course," Seto said, chuckling.

"Oh! Oh! I want fajitas! Fajitas!"

The chuckle evolved to an actual laugh. "Fine, Mokuba. That's fine. You deserve it. Coming, then, Connor?"

Connor's smile faltered. "I...I'd love to," he said, "but...but I need to...to get home. Mom's gonna kill me."

Seto mulled this over. "Give me a moment," he said.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a few keys, and waited. Placing it to his ear a few seconds later, he said, "Missus Brinkley. Good afternoon. Ah...yes, yes. He _is _with me, actually. I am sorry that I didn't inform you until now. I took the boys out to check on a project of mine. It's still under heavy construction. Ah...yes, of course. No, no, nothing like that. The reason I called, however, is...they were quite bored, here, and I thought I might take them to lunch. As compensation, you understand. Of course, of course...I fully understand. Five. Yes. It won't happen again. I assure you. Thank you. Goodbye, then, Missus Brinkley."

Seto slipped his phone back into his pocket. He glanced at Connor. "Be more careful from now on," he said. "You're getting me into trouble."

Connor half-smiled, half-flinched. "Y-Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Good answer. Now come on."

Mokuba gave his brother one last hug before stepping away, smiling up at him. "Thanks, Niisama!"

"Of course," Seto said again.

He took a small card—what looked like a business card—and a pen, scratching a note onto it and handing it to Tuscadero. "Give this to Richards," he said. "Your job shouldn't be in any danger, so long as you make up for lost time. If Hunter and his flunkies cause you any more trouble, call my personal assistant. The number is on the front of the card."

Tuscadero's grin was nearly as wide as Mokuba's. "Thank you, Mister Kaiba, sir! I will! Thank you!"

"You are welcome."

Seto turned to leave, and Mokuba trotted to keep up with him.

Joey sighed as he stepped past Tuscadero and watched Connor practically skip ahead of him, falling back as he had to laugh at the absurd, almost incredible circumstances of this day. He watched Seto, the man he had hated almost ever since he had met him, and shook his head.

Incredible.

Just...incredible.

"Learn somethin' new every day..." he muttered.

* * *

**END**

* * *

_**I said before that I was calling this first arc "The Matt Chronicles." I have since rescinded this name because it doesn't fit anymore. Matt won't be coming back for a while. That isn't to say you've all seen the last of him; but he won't be important again for quite some time. Instead, this arc's new name is "Lean on Your Pride." You may or may not recognize that as being from a song from the rock band Saliva, entitled "Famous Monsters," which I have long considered to be Seto's theme song.**_

_**And just to entice you all further...this isn't the end of Hunter and The Boys, either. We'll be running into them again, too.**_

_**Aren't you excited?  
**_


	8. Manifestare

_**Thus far, I have contented myself with staying mostly in familiar territory. That is to say, I've stayed mostly in Seto's point of view while writing these. And don't get me wrong; the majority of chapters will more than likely be that way. Seto is my comfort zone, if that makes any sense. I know him well, and fall back on him to get my point across because I know his voice. But I started this project with the intent of getting to know other characters besides Seto, and this time, like "The Boys," I have decided to shift into Mokuba's persona. However, whereas the previous pair of chapters showcased what he's learned from his brother, this chapter will focus on what he thinks of him.**_

_**For this, I decided there was no better way to do that than to enlist the help of a new acquaintance of mine: Miss Joanna Lorwell.**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

Joanna Lorwell was fully aware that her students thought of her as a slave-driver; if she were being completely honest, in fact, she would have said she liked it. A lot.

"I gave you all this assignment last week," she said sternly, raising her voice to rise above the sea of protests. "More than long enough to have finished. I told you that you could interview another family member, or a babysitter, or even a neighbor if you had to, so don't try worming your way out of it now."

"But Miss Lorwell—"

"We didn't—"

"My mom—"

"My—"

Joanna held up her hands. "Those of you who do _not _have a report to give today will get a zero. I told you this at the beginning of the year. If you don't do the work, you won't get the credit. Now...who has something to present?"

About seventy-five percent of the students grudgingly raised a hand. Most seemed to have been hoping that she would delay the inevitable if she thought enough of them hadn't done it. Joanna resisted the urge to smirk.

She knew that oral reports were the bane of most students' existences. She, herself, had been petrified of them until high school. That, perhaps, was the reason she had given the assignment in the first place. Best to get them used to the work early, right?

Sure.

"What I want each of you to do," she had told her class, "is to interview your parents. Think of it like detective work, or journalism if you like. Find out who they are. Who they used to be. Where they came from, what they do; you will write a report—an article, if you like—based on this information and present it to the rest of us this coming Friday. That gives you a full week, so...do a good job. All right?"

This last request had come out as something of a threat. Joanna wasn't surprised at the groans and the half-hearted protests. She crossed her arms and waited for them to finish.

As Mokuba Kaiba and Connor Brinkley, together as they almost always were these days, had passed by her desk on the way out at the end of the period, she stopped them. "I just finished going over the work you handed in," she told them. "Good work. I'm giving you each half-credit for your botched book reports, okay? It's still an F, but it's better than a zero. Now...don't make me regret taking it easy on you. Got it?"

Both boys had nodded.

"Good," she said. "Now...Connor, is your father still away on business?"

Connor nodded. "He's coming back this weekend, though."

"Ah. Good. So you'll be able to complete the assignment with no problem, then, yes?"

The blond boy shrugged. "Mom'd just have me call him. I'll get it done, Miss Lorwell."

"Very good. Mokuba, you of course can write on your brother. But, uh...I expect a bit more detail because of that. So dig deep, if you take my meaning."

Mokuba had flinched, but recovered almost instantly. He said, before Joanna could even think of responding to the sudden flash of...was it fear? Anger? She wasn't sure. But he said, "Uh...well...Niisama's busy a lot. I'll try to talk to him, but if I can't...can I just write the report? Like...without the interview thing?"

Joanna raised an eyebrow. "I...suppose so, yes."

"I won't make anything up," Mokuba assured, taking the slightly confused, apprehensive expression on her face to be suspicion. "You'd probably find everything on the internet, anyway, I bet."

He flashed a faintly embarrassed smile, and Joanna thought such an impossibly adorable expression shouldn't be allowed for any child past the age of six. She laughed, unable to stop herself. And she said, "All right, then. However you'd like. Just make sure you have a presentation for Friday."

Mokuba nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, Miss Lorwell. I will."

* * *

**2.**

* * *

Joanna had been wondering, through the week, what Mokuba's report would be like.

Despite her less-than-comfortable meeting with Seto Kaiba, she still found herself fascinated by the man. She thought that she had a somewhat more sympathetic view on the many negative opinions she had read and heard about him, but nonetheless, she wondered what Mokuba, his most passionate supporter, would say on the subject.

She would have had to admit, however—with some amount of chagrin—that she didn't pay nearly as much attention as she should have to most of the reports. They were standard affairs, most of the almost-prepared students simply reading—verbatim—the questions and answers of their interviews, and quite a few simply making up details on the spot.

By the fourth one, Joanna began to regret her own assignment.

"My mom doesn't work anymore, but she runs the house. So she's a dictator!"

"My dad's a secret agent! So, like, I can't tell you anything about what he really does. It's...classified information. But he's like James Bond. Seriously."

"My mom works in...real estate. Which probably has something to do with fishing poles or something."

"Mom's a superhero! And Dad's her sidekick!"

The vast majority of the reports didn't make it past the three minute mark (although Connor's, she noted with a smile, was about five, and it was clear that he had put much more effort into this assignment than he had in his previous ones), and by the time she reached the last student—who seemed to have purposefully been waiting so that he would be—there were still seven minutes left.

"All right, then, Mokuba," Joanna said, forcing herself awake. "Your turn."

Mokuba stood smoothly from his desk, pointedly ignoring some of his classmates' less than friendly expressions—everyone knew that he was not only younger than everybody else (even Connor), but that he had the best grade in the class, even _with _the failed book report—without picking up his written report. He did, however, pick up a few newspaper articles and a book that he had set on the floor by his backpack.

He walked up to the front of the room, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote his brother's name on the blackboard. His handwriting was something of the messy, inconsistent scrawl one would have expected of an eleven-year-old boy, but he seemed to be ensuring that these two works, in particular, be perfectly legible.

Beneath "Seto Kaiba," Mokuba began to draw what seemed at first to Joanna like random lines and scribbles, but she quickly realized that they must be the characters for Seto's name in Japanese. Unlike his English handwriting, these strokes were quick, practiced, and clean. Joanna thought that he must have been practicing these characters for a fair amount of time.

**海馬瀬人**

Once finished, Mokuba set the chalk down and turned to face his classmates.

Joanna suddenly felt like _she _were the student, her grade-book a pad of notes, preparing for a lecture. And indeed, it seemed like Mokuba were preparing to give one. He picked up one of the news articles. "'Seto Kaiba,'" he read, "'is the best example we have of exactly what's wrong with the rich in America.'"

He picked up a second. "'Seto Kaiba is an arrogant child throwing a tantrum, demanding that we take him seriously...or else.'"

Next: "'The first thing you learn when you see Seto Kaiba in person, if you are privileged enough to do so, is that he doesn't care. About you, about your troubles, about anything...except money.'"

He picked up the book, turned to a marked page, and said, "'He is a genius. He is wildly successful. He is, at times, charitable. The trouble with Seto Kaiba is that he takes these things, these inarguably good things, and makes you wonder if they're all that good after all.'"

Mokuba waited a moment before looking up at his classmates. He bundled the book and the articles, lifted them, waited another beat, and tossed them unceremoniously into Joanna's trash can.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

"The first thing," Mokuba said, and Joanna was surprised at how...magnetic the boy's voice was, now that he was in front of a crowd (now that he was performing), "that any of you would learn, if you met my brother...is that you aren't going to learn anything unless he decides to let you."

He began to pace along the length of the room.

"My brother, Seto Kaiba, is the only parent I've ever had. And he's the only one I want. Because he lets me see who he really is. He lets me learn about him. I am the only person in this room...in this city, in the world, who really knows him. Because I'm the only one he thinks worthy of that."

There was a kind of frustrated, angry pride on Mokuba's face as he said this, and the beginnings of a smirk. The other students looked confused, and Joanna couldn't really blame them. This was _not _the sort of presentation they had been expecting. Connor, though, was paying very close attention.

"That's probably why 'arrogant' is the first word most people think of when they hear his name," Mokuba continued. "He's rich, and he doesn't smile about it, so he's a snob, too. He's young, so he's spoiled. He doesn't like parties or talking to reporters, so he's a shut-in. He doesn't go out of his way to be friendly, so he's a jerk. Any of this sound familiar?"

Several of the other students nodded, murmuring softly.

Mokuba frowned. "Here's what none of the people who have _ever _written or talked about my brother—and yes, I've read and heard almost _all _of it—want to think about: _he's busy."_

Mokuba sounded accusatory now, and Joanna realized the reason he looked frustrated was because of his audience, as if they were the ones responsible for Seto's bad press. She supposed she couldn't really blame the kid.

"My brother works thirteen, fourteen hours a day," Mokuba snapped. "He runs an entire company, and he's only nineteen. He passed his high school equivalency exam before his twelfth birthday. He's a genius, a real genius, and because of that, people think he's Superman, and expect _way _more out of him than they would anyone else."

Joanna found herself following the black-haired boy's pacing with far more interest than even she had anticipated. There was something immensely charismatic about the way the young Kaiba carried himself, and she remembered that she had actually seen broadcasts of presentations and speeches that Mokuba had given at various conventions. He was used to working a crowd.

"The funny thing about that," Mokuba said, "is that they're angry when he does it. He doesn't believe in complaining. He doesn't ask for help, or pity, or anything; he just does his job. And because he does it _right, _he's a horrible person."

Far from the presentations of his classmates, Mokuba was giving a sermon. And quite a few people were paying rapt attention to it, Joanna herself included..

"I'm not going to talk about what my brother does," Mokuba continued. "I'm going to talk about who he _is. _Seto Kaiba is a man that was taught to excel. Taught to use his genius to build something worth building. To make a difference. And he's doing that, but it isn't for society. He doesn't do it to be recognized, or rewarded, or to get into a history book."

Mokuba sent a scathing glare toward the trash can, and Joanna wondered about the book he had thrown into it. He turned his eyes forward again.

"He does it for me."

There was a somewhat stunned silence as this sank in, and Joanna found herself smiling. Connor, for his part, was impersonating the Cheshire Cat. There was such pride, such love, such undying affection in Mokuba's voice. And it was clear to her now that however Seto Kaiba made _her _feel didn't matter. How he made _anyone _feel didn't matter.

He made his brother happy.

"I don't know if that's how a parent should be," Mokuba declared, "but it's how mine is. All the fame, all the money, everything. He does it for me. To set a good example for me. To give me a good life. He does it all so I can be proud to say he's my brother."

Mokuba's gray-violet eyes swept hawk-like across the room, as if he were daring anybody to tell him that he shouldn't be.

Joanna had a sneaking suspicion that Mokuba hadn't done any sort of research—other than what he'd thrown away—for this assignment. He hadn't needed to.

"I wonder," Mokuba said, suddenly somber, "if any of you know what it's like to have a stranger come up to you out of nowhere and tell you they'd be happy to take you in, because your parents are so obviously horrible. I hope not." He was suddenly an impossible contradiction; his face was simultaneously painfully young and far too old, his eyes filled with a kind of indignant pain that made Joanna shudder. "And I wonder if any of you know what it's like to tell that stranger that they're wrong, and have them laugh at you."

She flinched violently.

"A lot of people think they understand him. A lot of people feel like they need to tell me how terrible he is, because apparently that's their call to make. That's why I'm not walking you through a 'day at the office' or telling you what year he was born. That isn't what's important. That isn't who he is."

Mokuba turned to regard his brother's name on the board. "Seto Kaiba has given me more than a good life. He's literally given me every opportunity. I owe him my life, so many times over that I can't count them. He's worked so hard to give me that, and he doesn't expect anything in return. He doesn't care about what other people say about him because they aren't important enough to bother with. What's important to Seto Kaiba is his family. Me."

He pointed to those two words, those two words that defined his entire existence, and every eye in the room was drawn to them.

"The only opinion that matters about Seto Kaiba's parenting, to me and to him, is mine. This man is not horrible. He's not arrogant, he's not spoiled. Seto Kaiba is not 'what's wrong with the rich in America.' He's not a child, and he's never thrown a tantrum in his life."

His eyes flicked upward.

"This man is Seto Kaiba," Mokuba said sharply. "This man is my brother. This man is my father. And he's the greatest man in the world."

And perfectly on cue, as if he had planned it, the lunch bell rang. Joanna jumped, flinching as she looked behind her back at the clock. The class was over.

Mokuba gave a slight bow. "Thank you," he said.

Several of his classmates actually cheered.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Seto looked through his mail with all the interest and enthusiasm of a coma patient.

He wondered idly if _anyone _actually _enjoyed _getting mail anymore as he leaned back, irritable and almost tired, in his chair. His initial impression was an emphatic no. Mail was terrible. Mail, in fact, was the cause of all war. People gained enemies not by insulting them, or by betraying them, or by stealing from them.

People gained enemies by sending them mail.

Something, though, actually caught his eye: it was a large envelope, marked as having been sent from East Rivers Middle School. His mind blurred to the same place that any letter from a school will send anyone: something had gone wrong. Mokuba was in trouble.

But when he opened the envelope, he found a blue folder and a handwritten note; nothing particularly official. And his initial foreboding was replaced by simple curiosity as he set the rest of the pile down, along with the empty envelope, and turned the note over.

"What...?" he murmured.

The note was from Joanna Lorwell.

* * *

_Mister Kaiba,_

_I assigned a presentation recently; each of the students were to interview their parents, and give an oral report. Mokuba mentioned that you are, of course, often busy, and asked to simply write his report himself, without bothering you with the interview portion._

_He gave his presentation earlier today, and I have no problem saying that his was — by and away — the best of the lot. I am, of course, supposing that he has learned public speaking from your example. I have seen him on television a few times, speaking on your behalf._

_I have read and graded his written report, and have enclosed it with this note. I do not know if he has showed this to you; in fact, I am almost positive that he has not. And if that is the case, then I strongly urge you to read it, even if it will embarrass him, which it might._

_You have a very gifted, very special little boy, Mister Kaiba. I am sure that you know this far better than I do, but I have to say it. I doubt enough people know just how amazing Mokuba is. But I am certain that you do._

_I think you will enjoy this._

_- Joanna Lorwell_

* * *

Seto, his irritation forgotten as he felt a smile tug at his thin lips, took the blue folder that contained his brother's report as he set the letter aside. He leaned back in his chair again, this time somewhat relaxed, and his smile broadened into an outright grin when he read the title on the folder's cover:

"Seto Kaiba: I Don't Care."

Chuckling, Seto opened it and turned to the first page. He began to read.

His phone rang.

Seto didn't hear it.

* * *

**END**

* * *

_**Those of you with Japanese characters enabled in your web browser will see, in scene two, the four kanji that make up Seto's name in Japanese. I do not pretend to know them; I'm only just beginning to know the language. I "borrowed" these from Wikipedia of all places, and so I cannot vouch for their validity in any sense. However, they serve a purpose here, in reminding us of the Kaibas' heritage. For the sake of ease, I have placed these two in the USA, but of course they hail from Japan. And to me, that means Seto would of course know how to write his name in its "proper" form. By extension, so would Mokuba.**_

_**Borrowing again from another language, the title of this chapter, "Manifestare," is the Italian verb which means, "to manifest." And it is also the word from which our own "manifesto" is derived. That's Mokuba's goal this time, and I do believe he did a good job of it, don't you? This is the first time I've really tried to boil down what Mokuba thinks of his Niisama, and I think it works quite well. And yes, by the way, the epigraph here, "Perfect Fan," is a song dedicated to mothers. But the lines I chose are gender-neutral, I think, so they fit well enough.**_

_**After this chapter, I will embark upon the final two storylines that make up this introductory arc. Next is a three-parter that I think you may find...particularly enlightening. That is, if I do my job right.  
**_


	9. Born to be a Mama's Boy I

_**I received a complaint recently in regards to how I've crafted this story. Seto's overprotective display toward Matt Kerns in chapter three, Matt as a character, Hunter and his flunkies, Joey's dialogue...I'd just like to set the record straight, here. I suppose we could debate about whether or not it's necessary for Joey to speak in the particular way that I've decided, but in regards to Matt, and Hunter, and Seto's tendency toward violence...those are important. Very important. I have specific reasons for them that will come to light later on. Hopefully, you'll see what I mean when we get there.**_

_**A bit of backtracking on my part, for the sake of completion, by the way. While writing this section, I decided to add subtitles to multi-chapter storylines to keep them connected and yet distinct, if that makes any sense. So, since "The Boys" is a section with two parts, I will divulge their subtitles here: part one is "Peer Pressure," and part two is "Distress Signal." This has little to do with the story itself, of course, but in case you wondered, there you go.**_

_**With that out of the way, on to **_**this _chapter. As I mentioned in the ending author's note to "Manifestare," this next storyline will span three chapters. And to show you just how long I've been reworking, fine-tuning, and editing this story, I'll mention that this chapter's first draft was completed on October 25th of last year. Kind of frightening when I think about that. But, for those of you who've done their homework, you will know the significance of that day: it just happens to be Seto's birthday._**

**_And so, in trying to be topical, I present to you all, "Twenty-Fifth," part one of Mokuba's quest to find his Niisama a birthday present._**

* * *

**1.  
**

* * *

He was distracted, and he couldn't tell Connor why.

He couldn't tell _anyone _why. It was classified information. Information buried so deeply that he had a feeling even his brother would forget it, and it would become a secret to _him, _if Mokuba didn't remind him each time it happened.

Seto's birthday was coming.

Of course, Seto would like nothing more than to forget the day even existed. Mokuba had a feeling that his big brother had all but convinced himself that October was the only month of the year to skip straight from the twenty-fourth to the twenty-sixth, like a perpetual leap year in reverse.

Mokuba loved birthdays, but then, he guessed that was because he was a kid. Kids always loved their birthday...right? It was an unspoken rule. One's birthday was a personal holiday, an annual excuse to be happy. Like Christmas without the traffic.

Come to think of it, Seto didn't much care for Christmas, either.

"Hey. Mokuba. You okay?"

"Huh?" came the standard response as the black-haired boy stared confusedly at his friend. Connor quirked an eyebrow at him, and Mokuba laughed. "Sorry. I, uh...I'm tired. I didn't sleep much."

This was true.

The thing about Seto Kaiba's birthday was that it was a worldwide—or at least countrywide—mystery. Knowing that he would be buried in cards and gifts and flowers and marriage proposals and left ears if his "adoring public" knew the particular date of his entrance into the world, Seto had done his level best to ensure that October 25th was only one in about...well, 365 guesses. There were rumors regarding this elusive day tying it to every day of the earth's revolution, and Seto liked it that way. Every so often, he _did _get a card or two from fans who were _so sure _that they had it right, but he could discard them easily.

Aside from certain members of the staff at a certain hospital in southern Nevada, and government officials, the only person who truly _knew _Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba's birthday was Mokuba. He didn't even think Kaiba Gozaburo, with all his connections and contacts and technological know-how, had been able to figure it out.

Then again, Gozaburo wouldn't have cared, so it was a moot point, anyway.

Because of this shroud of mystery surrounding the significance of the hallowed date that was October 25th, Mokuba had to be very discreet about finding his Niisama a present each year. And it was just that: _a _present. He had quickly come to realize that Seto would accept a single gift from his kid brother without complaint, but anything more was too frivolous for his tastes.

And this year, he had come up with absolutely _zero _ideas for what to get.

He knew that Seto wouldn't care. He knew that Seto would just go through Saturday like it was any other Saturday, and things would be fine. It wouldn't bother him. It might elicit slight surprise, but Mokuba knew that his brother honestly wouldn't care.

But that wasn't good enough.

Mokuba had taken it upon himself to remind his big brother that his birthday was something special, that the day he'd been given life was something important. As the only person who knew about it that cared enough to acknowledge it, it fell to Mokuba to do it.

Niisama needed a birthday present, damn it.

Seto might have said that the report he'd turned in to Miss Lorwell, a manifesto of his Niisama's most shining virtues, was enough of a gift to last him several years. And indeed, Seto had made a point to take his brother out for ice cream when he'd gotten home on the day that he had read it, something that he very rarely did.

But as much fun as that simple trip to the ice cream parlor had been, for both of them, it just wasn't enough. Not by a long shot. Nope.

"If this is how you get every time we get a minimum day," Connor said, grinning, trying to lighten the suddenly somber mood, "then maybe you should ask Missus Keltcher if you can stay late. "

Mokuba grinned, but it was a distracted grin. He had a very limited window of time to come up with something. He usually had something by now. When he'd been little, it had been easy. He could just give Seto a toy, or a drawing, or a handmade card, and that was fine. When Seto had turned thirteen, Mokuba had presented him with the crayon-drawn Blue-Eyes White Dragon that he knew Seto still carried in the locket that Mokuba had given him when he'd turned _fifteen_, hidden behind the photo.

He'd stopped using the age-old solution of handcrafted gifts after one of the cleaning staff that Seto had come in every few days to clean up had knocked the—admittedly atrocious—dragon statue that he'd made for Seto's eighteenth onto the floor, snapping the head and cracking one wing in half.

Seto never made much of a big deal out of the presents Mokuba gave him, because that was just his way, but Mokuba couldn't remember ever hearing his brother yell as loudly as he had that afternoon. He hadn't admitted it, but that screaming match was a very fond memory in the young Kaiba's mind. He'd felt warmth, and gratitude, brighten his mood for days afterward.

Seto still kept the pieces of that statue in one drawer of his private desk.

As he climbed into the limousine sent to pick him up—Seto usually picked him up these days, but the early dismissal today had come as a surprise, and Seto hadn't been able to leave work in time—Mokuba turned and smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, Connor. I'll be better tomorrow. I'm just tired."

Connor waved it off. "No biggie. See ya tomorrow."

"See ya."

As Travis Copeland pulled out of the parking lot and toward Kaiba Manor, Mokuba leaned back and brooded. Seto would have been proud.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

Every Monday and Thursday, Seto had a cleaning crew come in to keep up maintenance on the mansion.

He gave them specific instructions to (usually) only clean those rooms—any number of them—that he and Mokuba did not actively use. So the front parlor, the ground floor kitchen, their bedrooms (and adjoining bathrooms), and Seto's office, were almost never touched by professional hands.

Mokuba thought that the practice was somewhat stupid, but Seto held firm. "I'll not have you becoming lazy," he said, "because I happen to be 'successful.' If you want to spend your _own _money to hire someone to clean your room, that's fine. Go right ahead."

He understood his brother's logic, but that didn't mean he had to like it. But he liked the idea of using _his_ money to hire some stranger to clean his room for him even less. He had better things to spend it on. So he grudgingly accepted that Seto was right...like always.

Usually, this scheduled clean-up was done before either Kaiba brother came home, but today, Mokuba opened the front door to find a young man attacking the landing with a vacuum. Realizing someone had come in, he looked up and switched off the device, giving Mokuba a smile of greeting. "Ah! Good afternoon, Mokuba-sama," he said. "Early day, I see."

"Yup," Mokuba said, shrugging, and felt heat rush to his face at being addressed in such a manner. Seto had long gotten used to being referred to by title, but Mokuba had yet to. It still made him slightly uncomfortable to have a "-sama" attached to his name. It didn't _feel _right. Sure, _Seto _was an important person, but...he was only _honorary_ vice-president. He didn't actually do any of the _work _that came with that position. He did _some _things for the company, but not many, and certainly not often.

But, people insisted.

Mokuba, conscious of the fact that this man would end up picking it up if he dropped his backpack on the floor like he usually did, kept it slung over his shoulder and stepped into the parlor, and up the stairs toward his bedroom; and in the hall, he saw a young woman sweeping the floor while a second man moved behind her, dusting the artwork on the walls. They moved with a breed of efficiency that was stunningly mechanical, so meticulous that it couldn't possibly be human. Mokuba couldn't help but stare for a moment.

It was no wonder; Seto only hired the best.

"Good afternoon, Mokuba-sama," said the young woman.

"Good day, Bocchama," added the man.

Mokuba blushed, but nodded, and stepped past them toward his bedroom. They smiled as they watched him for a moment, then turned back to their work. Mokuba was glad when he finally reached his door and pushed it open, finding himself more and more uncomfortable; Seto's solitary lifestyle had caused Mokuba to rather expect silence to reign over their home. Having people, especially adults, other than Seto here made him nervous.

When he saw someone inside his own bedroom, his heart fell, and he felt betrayed.

They'd even infiltrated his private space.

He was about to say something until he realized that the man was standing on a spotless floor; the mess that Seto had been harping on him to "deal with" over the past few days was nowhere to be seen. The man—dressed in a rather nondescript suit and wearing a white bandana over his dusty blond hair—saw him and smirked.

"Seto-sama broke his own rule today, it seems," he said, and Mokuba felt a touch of relief that he hadn't given _him_ a title like the other three had. He could handle "Seto-sama" just fine; in fact, he thought it sounded rather nice, really.

"Huh?" Mokuba offered, unsure of what else to say.

"Well, my guess is, you did something that really lightened his mood recently," the man said, winking, and Mokuba did not mention his report, "since he had us clean up your space, too. Give you a bit of a break, eh?" The man chuckled. "Well, good timing, because I'm just about done here. Seto-sama said he'll be home late, so he asked me to pick up his office, too. Sounds like he's in a deep hole this time. Doesn't want to worry about housework tonight. So...I'll be off, then. Enjoy."

"Uh...thanks."

The blond man slipped out the door.

Mokuba didn't know who this man was, but he thought he rather liked him. But that was only a cursory thought; he was more fixated on what he'd said. He dropped his backpack onto his bed and fished out his phone.

He punched in a number.

"...Niisama? Hi. Are you feeling okay?"

* * *

**3.**

* * *

To anyone looking in, he probably wouldn't have looked any different than he ever did, except perhaps that he was typing even faster than usual. Of course, that in itself would have been a true sight to behold.

It was inside, in his whirling head, that Seto Kaiba was almost overwhelmed.

This holiday season was no different from any other, really, but that wasn't all that comforting. That just meant he'd been swamped like this every year for the past four, which didn't help him now. He thought cynically that nothing but a needle filled with liquid energy—straight from the sun itself—injected straight into his heart would help him right now.

He sighed heavily, shaking his head and forcing that absurd thought out of his mind. He had no time to think that way. He irritably slammed a finger onto his intercom and snarled that he didn't have time for phone calls right now, and was so used to people heeding his orders that he was legitimately shocked when the voice of his receptionist came back not two seconds later.

_"I think you want to take this, Master Kaiba."_

"I think I know what I _want, _thank you very much," Seto snarled, "but unless you've uncovered the secret to cloning, I _don't_ think—"

_"It's Young Master Mokuba's number, sir."_

Seto blinked.

"...Right."

He almost _heard _the smirk.

_"Niisama?" _came Mokuba's voice from the speaker a few seconds later.

"Hey, kid," Seto said, turning back to the sheaf of paper on his desk and shuffling it around, trying to find the correct order. He found the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.

_"Hi," _Mokuba said. _"Are you feeling okay?"_

From anyone else, the concern, the worry, in that question would have offended him. To anyone else, he would have said, _No, I'm dying of a heart attack right now, you idiot, why aren't you calling 911 yet? Get the hell away from me; I don't have time for you._

To Mokuba, he said, "Sure, kiddo, no problems," in a perfectly calm tone of voice; more than calm, it was soft. "I'll be home late, so pick out something in the refrigerator for dinner, all right? I packed a few things last week."

_"Okay. Thanks. Um...you're not going to go three days without sleeping again, are you?"_

Seto actually found an urge to laugh. "Don't worry about me, Mokuba. I was made for this. I won't lie and tell you I'm having the time of my life, but I'll handle it just fine. You just get your homework done, and _don't _eat ice cream for lunch again."

_"Yes, Niisama," _Mokuba said exasperatedly, but Seto could tell that the boy was smiling. _"But only if you promise to eat something, too. I know you think you can get away with ignoring it."_

"Yes, doctor," Seto replied, half-sharply. "Understood. Now, I'm busy, so I have to go. Behave yourself while I'm gone. I'll be home around nine-thirty."

_"'Kay,"_ Mokuba said, and he did a decent job of hiding his disappointment. _"I'll see you later, Niisama."_

"Always. Goodbye, Mokuba."

_"Bye. Love you."_

"I love you, too, kiddo."

He terminated the call, let the smile that had been fighting its way onto his face come all the way through, and didn't find himself so irritated at the world anymore. He found the specific file he had been looking for, leaned forward in his chair, and lost himself again.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

The blond man who had cleaned Seto's office and Mokuba's bedroom was Clinton Lanyon.

And he remained the only worker on Seto's cleaning staff that Mokuba felt even marginally comfortable around, mostly because he didn't treat Mokuba like some sort of prince. And so when it was Clinton, and not any of the others, who knocked on his door a half-hour after he'd left, Mokuba wasn't all that bothered.

"Heya," Clinton said, flashing a smile. "I, uh...found something in Seto-sama's office, and I'm not sure whose it is. Don't look like his. I thought it might be yours. Uh...well, anyway, here. Whatever it is, it's private. So I don't feel right doing anything with it."

He passed Mokuba a thick, worn book that turned out to be a journal. He didn't say anything—except a word of thanks—when Clinton handed it to him, but Mokuba knew instantly that he'd never seen this book before in his life.

"We're gonna be leaving in about fifteen minutes or so," he said. "Everything's just about cleared up around here. Ah...Vicky made some chicken salad for us. There's some left over. Dunno if you like chicken salad, but...makes a mean sandwich. Anyway, uh...nice seeing you. You take it easy, a'right?"

Mokuba nodded distractedly, not hearing half of what Clinton had said to him, because as he opened the book, he realized what it had to be. He forced himself to look up, smile, and nod as Clinton left the room, closing the door behind him. Mokuba looked at the Blue-Eyes White Dragon he'd pinned up for a long moment before turning his attention back to the item in his hands.

He opened it again, and looked at the inside of the front cover.

In the top right corner, written vertically, Mokuba saw a group of simple, but practiced, Japanese letters. He quickly recognized that it was a name, written in the hiragana alphabet. He sounded out each symbol, lips moving slowly.

**や  
が  
み  
せ  
と**

"Ya-ka...er, no. There's the...Ya-_ga_-mi...Se-to."

His brother's journal. His brother's name, before they had been adopted by Gozaburo; which meant, at the very least, that it was seven years old. Mokuba looked at the date printed—in tiny, meticulous handwriting—on the first page.

"10-25-94," it read.

Mokuba had been born in 1996.

With a sudden jolt, Mokuba marveled at the thought that he held in his hands a journal that his brother had started keeping when he had turned six years old. He stared, unable to see it. The earliest memory he had of his brother's face was from six years _after _this journal had been given to him.

Looking around, as if expecting Seto to leap through the window and snatch the book from him, he felt a rush of sudden adrenaline. In the next breath, he felt ashamed. He frowned, directing it at the book as if it were taunting him.

_This is Niisama's, _he told himself. _I shouldn't be thinking about...no. Niisama trusts me. He wouldn't...he wouldn't want me to...but...but..._

But then he knew.

And with that knowledge, he felt a bit better. Not much, but a bit.

He jumped up from his chair, turned to his stereo and turned it on. As music started playing, he hopped onto his bed, unable to keep a smirk from his face, and opened the book again. There was no use arguing now. There was _no way. _Nuh-uh.

How could he _not?_

He started reading, and the part of him that argued against it fell silent.

* * *

**5.**

* * *

_**Mom says I should start writing my thoughts down.**_

_**I don't know why, but Mom's smart. She knows things. Dad says he used to do it, too. So I guess it's okay. This book they gave me is really nice. I don't want to mess it up. But Mom says that won't happen, because I write like a typewriter. I don't know what she means. My hands don't click-clack or anything. Do they?**_

_**It's my birthday. Mom says I was born at 5 in the morning. That's why they gave me this journal. Dad says he got one for his sixth birthday, so I should get one too. Mom picked it out. I got a chess set. The board folds up so you can take it with you, and there's a little bag for the pieces, too. It's nice. I like chess. Mom still beats me, but I can beat Dad every time now. He says it's not fair. He says I must be cheating. But I don't like to cheat.**_

_**I got to eat at Reg's Barbeque restaurant tonight. I like the chicken they have there. We don't go out to eat too much, because it costs a lot and there are bills and groceries and stuff like that, but today Mom said we could. The waiter even gave me a piece of cake when he found out it was my birthday. That was nice of him. He even got some of the other people to sing a song to me. It was kind of embarrassing.**_

_**I asked Mom once why we celebrate birthdays. Don't we grow up all the time? It doesn't happen in one day, does it? How come we don't celebrate every day? Mom said birthdays are special because they remind us when we came into the world. She said birthdays are a special time, a time to be happy and remember all the good stuff that happened since last birthday. I guess that makes sense. If I get to have barbeque chicken and cake every time my birthday comes, then I think I like birthdays. I wonder when people started doing that. I think I'll try to find something about it at the library. I'll ask Mom if I can go tomorrow.**_

_**I don't know what else to write. So I guess that's when I should stop.**_

* * *

Mokuba couldn't help but smile as he read.

The funny part, he thought, was that Seto's handwriting—and his spelling, and his _everything_—had been so much better than Mokuba's own, even when he was so young. He could tell that it was his brother, because it just..._sounded _like him. He tried to picture a tiny little Seto, sitting at his desk, maybe with his legs dangling down from the chair, not quite reaching the floor because he'd been pretty short up until he'd become a teenager, writing in this book on his birthday.

It was a nice picture.

He flipped through the rest of the pages, about two hundred or so, and each of them was filled. Not a single space was left vacant. Every line was covered by Seto's neat, miniscule handwriting. Some pages had drawings, and Mokuba blinked in surprise when he saw them. It had never struck him that Seto might know how to draw. Not really. Or, at least, not things like this. Trees and animals and houses...and they were far better than anything Mokuba had ever seen a child create. He smiled when he thought that that just figured; Niisama was good at everything.

But as he flipped over the last few pages, something fell out.

Mokuba picked up what turned out to be a tiny photograph from his lap and looked at it.

It was a young woman, with jet-black hair, slender and beautiful, sitting on a bench in front of a lake. She was dressed in a violet sweater, with a wide collar, and faded blue jeans. She was smiling, and something about that smile was just...nice. It wasn't just that she was pretty. Even though it was a photograph, probably years old, something about this woman's smile made Mokuba feel warm. It was sincere, and even in the stillness of the picture he could see it brighten her eyes, which matched the sweater she wore.

The woman was wearing a gold necklace, with a locket, over that sweater. She had a thin gold ring on one the third finger of one hand, folded over the other in her lap, and in that hand she held a single red rose. A sudden realization hit him, and when he looked on the other side of the photo, faded and graying, he saw tiny writing in one corner, this time in English, that confirmed what he already knew.

"Yagami Yuki – 11-28-95," it read.

Mokuba turned back and looked at the woman. And he suddenly felt tears in the backs of his eyes. Because now that he looked again, he saw it. Saw it more clearly than he'd ever seen anything, and he was ashamed that it took him so long to see it.

Yagami Yuki.

This woman was his mother.

* * *

**END**

* * *

_**Yep. More Japanese characters this time. I'm starting to learn the language and, like a child ecstatic with himself for figuring out a new trick, I want to use my new knowledge in any way that I can. Hiragana is the first alphabet I learned, and from what I've read is traditionally the first alphabet taught in Japanese schools. So, it's the first alphabet Seto learned, according to my rationale. **_

_**Also, for those who don't know, "Bocchama" is a title which translates to "young master." I first heard it in the first-series anime directed at Seto, and I thought it fitting for it to be directed at Mokuba now that Seto has taken Gozaburo's place as the resident "Kaiba-sama."**_

_**Anyway, that aside, I think you can see that Seto was quite a different person in his youth according to my theory, and I think that's an easy conclusion to come to. One of the things I wanted to touch on is what sort of person he was before he lost his mother. That, in my opinion, is the most defining event in Seto's childhood, and what really started him down the route toward the person he would later become. If Gozaburo was the blacksmith that molded him, then Yagami Yuki's death is what stoked the fire and prepared the metal to be formed. **_

_**You may notice that this story has more original characters in it than is usual for me. I've tried to give personalities, and names, and lives to any number of people in Domino City that **_**aren't _duelists. Let's face it; it's a big city. And not all of them go around with duel disks on their wrists. Joanna, Clinton, Connor, Enid, Matt, and all the rest of them, are just my way of branching out a bit. Make things more interesting._**

**_You'll get to meet yet another new face in the next section, by the way. I hope you like her. And with that, I will leave you. 'Til next time, all. Thanks for joining me.  
_**


	10. Born to be a Mama's Boy II

_**Hello, again.**_

_**So, as I mentioned before, this chapter was another foray into inventing an original character. This project is full of them. Kind of like an experiment, I guess. Hone my skills at making up my own people. I like this character, and writing her was a blast. I hope you'll like her. **_

_**Part two of Mokuba's journey to find Niisama a birthday gift thus commences. I got the idea from a similar gift that was given to my father several years ago. It's hard to pinpoint just what kind of present one gets a multi-billionaire, especially someone like Seto. I'm sure this plot device has been used far too often in the realm of Seto-centric fanfiction, but I think there's a reason for that. **_

_**I offer no defenses when it comes to using plotlines that are overused. I'm working on this project as the ideas come to me, and if they work toward my ultimate goal, then I'll use them, whether they're old and tired or not. It's my version, whatever it is, and that makes it different enough for me. **_

_**Hopefully you will all agree.**_

_**This is "Touch of Midas."**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

Seto Kaiba had a flawless memory.

If he'd ever bothered to even really think about it, Seto would have known—in fact, he likely _did _know, and just didn't care—that the technical, almost mythical term was "eidetic." But it was one of those things, like breathing or walking, that just came naturally. He wasn't called a genius for his looks.

So, Seto never really gave it any thought.

He should have remembered.

But that night, at nine-forty-five, when he slipped into his front parlor to be met with the absolute silence that he had come to not only expect but depend upon in his home, Seto was not thinking of anything, much less random articles of his personal history that may or may not have been missing.

He hung up his coat, removed his tie, and set his briefcase against one wall. Drawing in a deep breath, he felt exhaustion creep up on him, and it was an alien feeling to realize that this night, he could listen to that familiar ache instead of ignoring it. Part of him chuckled at the irony of the fact that he would likely have trouble sleeping, because that ache was _so _familiar that he had come to associate it with a sort of internal alarm system, and as he felt it, his body seemed to automatically wake itself up in preparation for the work he would have normally been contemplating.

Putting these thoughts aside for now, Seto strode into the kitchen. There was a slight, almost-mess left over from when Mokuba had made dinner, but it was minor enough that he knew his brother had cleaned up after himself. He smiled as he quickly—automatically—finished the job by wiping the counter with a nearby hand towel. He checked the refrigerator.

Mokuba had elected to have the barbequed chicken he had prepared two days prior. He checked the freezer, and found that none of the ice cream that he kept in preparation for certain occasions had been touched. He smiled at that, nodding to himself.

He ascended the staircase that led to the second-floor hall where their bedrooms were located, and found Mokuba—in blue pajama pants—pulling on a loose white t-shirt in preparation for bed. Mokuba poked his head through, pulled it down, and looked over as Seto stepped into the room.

"Hi, Niisama," Mokuba said, and his smile was wider than usual.

"Hey, kid," Seto said, ruffling his brother's—wet—hair. Mokuba hugged him briefly, and hopped into bed. Seto instinctively pulled the blanket up to tuck him in, and Mokuba let him. "Sorry I didn't get home earlier. Things will ease up by the weekend. You get some sleep, and I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

Mokuba nodded.

"Goodnight, Mokuba," Seto said, and he turned out the light.

"'Night, Niisama."

And when Seto entered his bedroom, the journal that he had for some reason kept around for the past thirteen years never entered his mind. And he never noticed that it was missing from its usual place on his shelf—where it had been before falling onto the floor for Clinton Lanyon to find—nor did he, of course, think to check Mokuba's room, where it was now stored, and hidden.

And even if he had noticed that his journal had gone missing, he likely wouldn't have cared.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

True to his word, Mokuba was better the next day.

In fact, he was bubbly. Excited. More chipper than usual.

Because he now had an idea. Since he had found the picture of his mother in that old journal—which he now had buried in one drawer of his desk—he thought he knew what to do for his brother's birthday. It made so much sense that he was embarrassed that he hadn't thought of it sooner.

Although, if he _had _thought of it sooner, it wouldn't have done him much good; he wouldn't have had the picture.

He had read a good amount of the earlier entries in his brother's old journal, and they, combined with certain memories of when Seto had mentioned the mythic figure that was Yagami Yuki to him, confirmed that there had really been something special between Seto and his mother. Mokuba had never known her, but even so, he _felt _like he knew her. But most importantly, Seto had known her.

And Seto had loved her.

And yet, that tiny snapshot that Mokuba was now carrying in his backpack was the only picture of her that Mokuba had ever seen. It had miraculously stayed in near-perfect condition over the many years it had been stored, but...it was small.

And that morning, on the way to school, he asked Travis Copeland—who was driving him again, since Seto had had to go in to work early, before Mokuba had even woken up—if he knew of any places that could resize a picture to make it bigger, without making it blurry.

"Why do you ask?" he asked.

"...No reason, really. I just want to...make something nice."

Travis did not know Seto's birthday was coming up—he had never had any cause to ask, and had known he wouldn't receive an answer even if he ever had—but he had caught on to the fact that whatever Mokuba was planning, it was probably a gift of some sort. He was being too secretive for it not to be.

So, Travis told him about Gloria.

"...Who?"

"Gloria. Gloria Haley. Is, uh...this picture you're talking about having resized a person?"

"Yeah."

Travis chuckled. "Well, Missus Haley specializes in portraits. She's an artist, you see. And last year for Christmas, I got Tina—" this, Mokuba knew, was Travis's sister "—a portrait done, of our Aunt Christine. Always were close, those two. Anyway, Missus Haley is really amazing. She does pastels. Something like chalk. If you want a portrait of somebody, she's the one to go to."

And Travis knew he'd hit the mark when Mokuba jumped forward and asked, excitedly, "How much does she charge?"

"Three-hundred-fifty per person, about a hundred for the frame. Steep, but I don't think you have much to worry about, do you?"

Mokuba grinned. No, he didn't. It was true that Seto only gave his brother a limited amount of access to the "family fortune," but over the years he had set up a sort of unspoken deal with Seto that allowed him essentially a blank check for almost anything that wasn't for himself, because giving a gift was different from buying something for oneself, and Seto didn't have a problem with Mokuba being generous. If anything, he encouraged it, despite his own general lack of charity.

Seto didn't ask, Mokuba didn't tell. It was a fine setup, really.

And now he had the perfect plan for his Niisama's birthday present.

And with that came a peace of mind that he hadn't had for over a week. He didn't know how long it would take this Gloria Haley to finish the portrait, or if something as small as what he had to give her would even suffice, but he had gotten her business address and phone number from Travis, and he decided he would ask her himself.

"Where are you going?" Connor asked him after school let out that day.

"Gotta do something for Niisama," Mokuba answered vaguely, and Connor figured—as Mokuba had hoped he would—that that meant Seto wanted him to do something for Kaiba-Corp. It wasn't quite a lie, but it still felt like one. However, Mokuba had a feeling that even though his brother had obviously accepted Connor, Seto would not appreciate him spreading the news that he had so diligently hidden over so many years.

October 25th was a secret.

And Mokuba was expected to keep it one.

So he waved goodbye to Connor and—when Travis picked him up again—asked to go to Haley's studio, and Travis grinned. "Yassir," he said. "Off we go."

Mokuba grinned back.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

Travis was chuckling as he ascended the small set of stairs that led up to the front door of Haley's place of business, which she called "Touch of Midas," but aside from the somewhat hyperbolic name, the building was rather nondescript. Mokuba thought that maybe that was the point. Maybe Gloria Haley liked to keep a low profile, and wanted her advertising to be mostly viral.

The first thing Mokuba realized when the door opened was that Gloria Haley, in tune with her building, was _not _what he had expected. And yet, in a way, she was.

Over her clothing was a once-white apron that was stained in that somehow appealing way that only serious artists are capable of, which wasn't surprising, but the rest of her certainly was. Maybe, he thought, it was because Gloria sounded like an "old" name to him, but he had expected a woman far older than the mid-twenties girl who now leaned against the doorframe and winked at Travis Copeland as if he were an old friend.

"You look slightly familiar," she said, and she had the slightest hint of an Australian accent.

The top of her head was covered almost completely by a white bandana, with only a thin, wispy strand of strawberry blond hair poking out over her slightly tanned, vibrant face. She wore a sleeveless shirt beneath the apron, and tight black jeans. A tattoo of a wolf adorned one upper arm.

"Afternoon, Haley," Travis said. "Too busy for new business?"

Haley smirked. "No such thing, you crazy? C'mon in."

The interior of "Touch of Midas" was much bigger than Mokuba had anticipated, and samples of Haley's work covered the entire back wall. As he looked around at those samples, Mokuba realized that Travis hadn't been lying. The portraits here were absolutely incredible. Not to say that he knew enough about the artistic process to really understand the work involved in these portraits, but Mokuba thought a few of the people inside those frames were actually breathing. One of them, he realized, _was. _He quickly understood that it was a camouflaged computer monitor, with a self-made screensaver, strategically placed so as to provide its primary purpose to the system set up beneath the nearby desk, but also to fool the less observant of her clientele.

Mokuba laughed.

Music blared from a set of speakers on the desk, in the far left corner, while the subwoofer jumped and shook rhythmically on one of the shelves, and Haley turned it down as she strode inside. She spun on one heel and turned to face them, raising a curious eyebrow. "So what can I do ya for?"

"Going rate's twenty-seven-fifty," Travis offered.

"Damn inflation. The shrimp any cheaper?" Haley asked, smirking and with a mischievous glint in her bright green eyes, and it was only after a few seconds of silence went by that Mokuba understood the joke, and blushed furiously. Haley saw this and laughed. "Oh, he's adorable. Can I keep him?"

"Sorry, not for sale," Travis said. "Not mine to sell even if he was, anyway."

"Such a tease, Trav," Haley said, shaking her head in disappointment. Mokuba wondered if Gloria Haley knew Travis personally, or if she were just _very _friendly. "So what's up, then?" she asked, crossing her arms. "Here for another go? Want me to do one o' this little cutie, here? I might just give you a discount."

Mokuba blushed again.

Travis laughed. "No, no. Actually, he's the one who wants to borrow you for a while. I'm just here so I won't get fired."

Haley's eyes lit up. "Oh! That so? Well, then, sweetie," she said, looking at Mokuba, "pick your poison. Whatcha want from little ol' me?"

Mokuba reached into his back pocket and produced the photo of Yuki, and handed it to Haley. "This," he said. Haley took the picture, gave it a cursory glance, and raised an eyebrow.

"Hmmm...she's a pretty li'l thang, isn't she? This one should be fun. Okay, so...you wanna go over your options, then?"

Mokuba waved a hand. "No need," he said. "Just...whatever your best is. Gimme everything. I just want that picture...bigger. Like that size." He pointed to one of the samples on the wall. Haley looked. It was a two-foot by three-foot canvas of an elderly man in an old-fashioned suit. Haley looked down at the photo again, and back to the portrait.

"...I can do that," she said. "But it'll run you a pretty penny, if you want the best I got."

"That's fine."

"Like, six hundred dollars. For everything. You telling me you got that much in saved lunch money, kiddo? Got it squirreled away in your pockets, there?"

Mokuba reached into his pocket again and removed his wallet. He glanced inside, nodded, and produced ten bills. He passed them to Haley. Travis smirked, and Haley gaped, when they realized that each was $100.

"...Whoa."

"So...make it perfect, okay? Please?"

Haley blinked, looking up from the thousand dollars in her hand. "For this much, honey, I'd paint it on your wall if you wanted. You'll have a masterpiece, on my honor."

Mokuba smiled. "Okay. Thanks. Um...how long will it take?"

"One person? Ah...week, week and a half."

"Okay, great. Thanks a lot."

Haley winked. "S'what I'm here for."

Travis elbowed Mokuba's shoulder. "Always the generous one, aren't you?"

Mokuba shrugged, still smiling. "I just wanna make sure."

Travis chuckled, then seemed to remember something. He looked at Haley, and his face was more somber. "By the way, I...know you usually keep copies of your work, for your 'show-off' catalog, but, uh...I'm thinking this one'll have to stay a secret. One of a kind. Right?"

Mokuba thought about this, then nodded.

Haley frowned curiously. "Why for? This gal a spy or something? Got some CIA action going, Trav?"

"...Something like that."

"Huh...well, okay, then. With how much you're payin', kiddo, I don't think I could say no if I wanted. Mum's the word. Nobody sees this but you, me, and whoever this is for. Lucky, whoever they are."

"You don't know the half of it," Travis said.

"If this turns out to _be _a masterpiece," Mokuba said suddenly, "I'll be sure to put in a good word for you."

Haley quirked an eyebrow again, but Travis laughed. "Oh, you _are _generous, aren't you?"

"Maybe," Mokuba replied, shrugging, a bit of his brother's arrogance coming through in a smirk. He obviously had managed to regain his footing after having been embarrassed, and was having fun with the confused look on Haley's face. "I'll have to see."

Travis continued to chuckle.

"I, uh..." Haley said, "...feel like I'm missing something, here. What don't I know?"

"Oh, you know it," Travis said. "You just don't _know _you know it."

"...Uh?"

Mokuba's smirk widened, and he took his student ID out of his wallet, showing it to Haley. She took it from him, frowning again, and her eyes suddenly went wide. "Oh, God..." she breathed. "K...K-Kai...oh, _shit."_

Travis tossed his head back and laughed again.

Haley scowled hotly at him. "Bit of _warning _next time," she snapped, "'fore you let me make a damn _fool _out of myself in front of..._oh_, you little...! I'm charging you extra next time! _God!"_

She shook her head, slapping a hand across her face. Her face had gone red. She dared steal a glance at Mokuba, who was grinning, amused and delighted, at her. "I'm a dope," she said. "Sorry about that...embarrassing you and all. I, uh...uh...yeah. I've seen you on cable a couple times. You do good work...er..." she cleared her throat, "...Mokuba."

She looked as if she were preparing to be shot for insulting him, but Mokuba's smile widened. "Thank you," he said, and the sincerity in his voice surprised her. She did not realize that he wasn't thanking her for the compliment.

He held out a hand. "I'll see you in a week or two, then?"

Haley looked like a deer caught in headlights until Travis nodded to her, which she took as the okay to actually shake the offered hand. "You'll have it. My best work, swear to God. You, ah...won't tell your brother I made that crack about buying you, right? I don't wanna get into trouble with that one."

"If I told Niisama what you said, I'd have to tell him why I came here. Can't do that."

"Eh? Why would—" she stopped suddenly, glancing at the photo again. "Oooh..." she said. "I get it. So _that's _why this is s'posed to be a secret, huh? Well, you guys just wanna get me nervous as Atkins at a doughnut shop, don't you? Sheesh." She waved them off as she headed back toward her computer. "You two sadists head out. I'll get started. I'll call Trav when I'm done. I still got his number."

She made some quick strokes of her keyboard, glancing over at her monitor, which now displayed a standard UI. "Should I send the receipt to you, too?" she asked, directing the question to Travis. "Hush-hush, right?"

"Yeah, do that," Travis said.

Haley nodded. "I'll get started, then. I'll be in touch."

"Thanks!" Mokuba said, waving as he slipped through the door Travis held open for him. Haley looked over, smiled, and held up her own hand in return.

"Thank _you," _she said, and winked.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Roland Ackerman had been Seto Kaiba's personal assistant for four years.

In that time, he thought he could say with some amount of authority that his boss didn't sleep enough. But at the same time, he knew that _telling_ his boss that he didn't sleep enough would do no good. If Mokuba—who was the only person with any amount of _real _influence over Seto's behavior—could not convince his brother to at least _try _to go to bed at a decent hour, well...Roland would have bet, considering that, that the devil himself could do no better.

He tried not to fall into the trap of worrying for Seto. While it was true that he was many years—indeed, over a decade—older than his employer, that did not afford any amount of authority, and to assume that it did would be not be a _step _in the wrong direction; it would be a headlong rush, and Roland knew that if he began to worry, then he would begin to (try to) influence him, and Seto would take it as a grave insult.

Roland had been nothing but a rank-and-file employee under Seto's predecessor, and he had watched the boy genius that Gozaburo had selected as his heir ever since his first visit to the offices, which had been a scant two weeks after the adoption. Gozaburo had introduced him as "Ackerman," and Roland had not said a word on the matter; it was not his place to. But young Seto had seemed to note that being referred to in such a manner was uncomfortable for him, and since the day that the new leader of the Kaiba Corporation had approached him over the matter of a promotion, Seto had never called him by his last name.

Roland appreciated that slight, indeed minimal, matter of respect too much to allow worry to conflict with the rather comfortable relationship he had with the man who now signed his paychecks. He was one of the few individuals that Seto treated with _any _outward respect. The list, in fact, was short enough to count on one's hands.

And so he did not attempt to convince Seto to leave his office, even when the clock on his watch declared that it was past ten. He did not leave his own office, in fact, choosing instead to scan the feeds from the myriad of security cameras stationed throughout the building. So intent on this was he that he jumped when his phone, set to the left of his computer's monitor, suddenly attacked the sterile silence of the building with its shrill screeching.

He took the handset from the cradle and put it to his right ear. "Yes," he said quickly.

_"Roland?"_

It was young Mokuba's voice. He sounded tired.

Roland frowned. "What is it, little one?" he asked quickly. "Has something happened? Are you safe?"

_"I'm fine," _Mokuba assured him, sounding amused now. _"I just wanted to know if Niisama was still there. Is he working?"_

"Yes, in fact, he is," Roland said. "Would you like to speak with him?"

Roland knew the answer. Mokuba would not have called _him_ if he'd wanted to speak to his brother. He had Seto's personal number, was the only person with permission to use it at all times, in fact, and the only reason he would not have used that number was if he was convinced that his brother was busy.

Which, Roland figured, he was. Seto was nothing if not a workaholic, but even _he _did not make a habit of spending the entire day—for he had come in before the sun had risen—without setting foot in his home; since he had, he had a reason.

_"No," _Mokuba said. _"That's okay. Tell him I said goodnight, please? I wanted to wait for him, but I'm tired. I'm gonna go to bed."_

"I will tell him, little one," Roland assured. "Rest well."

_"Thanks. Bye."_

"Goodnight."

Roland dropped the handset back into place with a nonchalant twitch of his hand as he strode quickly toward Seto's office. He knocked quickly to announce his presence, but did not wait for an invitation to enter. Seto looked up from his desk as Roland stepped inside.

"Yes," Seto snapped, and it was not a question.

"A message for you, delivered to me, Master Kaiba," Roland said. "Your brother bids you goodnight."

Seto flinched suddenly, and he glanced at his computer's monitor, eyes widening slightly as he saw the time. "Damn it," he muttered sharply. "...Thank you, Roland. I...I'll be heading home now. Damn it!"

Roland smirked.

Seto did not respond to that smirk.

He swept out of the room, and Roland thought that perhaps Mokuba had more influence over his brother's behavior than he had given the boy credit for.

* * *

**5.**

* * *

Not a single light led Seto's way through his home when he entered, and when he strode into the kitchen and flipped on the light, he checked to make sure that Mokuba had eaten—he had; beef stew—and quickly made his way up the stairs to his brother's bedroom.

The door was closed, and Seto swept the door open. He did not open it slowly; to do so would only make more noise. The light was off, but he could tell as his brother's form shifted beneath the blankets at his entrance that Mokuba was not yet asleep.

"Hey, kid," Seto said, as apologetically as he could manage.

"Niisama," Mokuba said softly, and Seto strode inside and clicked on a lamp as he sat on the boy's desk chair. He was smiling. "I didn't want to bother you. Are you sure...?"

"It's fine," Seto said, waving it off. "I should have come home. I'm sorry, Mokuba. I lost track of time." He reached out instinctively and swept back his brother's hair from his brow, and Mokuba's smile widened. "You look exhausted. You got up early again, didn't you?"

"Later than you did," Mokuba said.

Seto smirked.

"We played dodge-ball in PE," Mokuba said. "Guess I _am _pretty tired. I'm okay, Niisama."

Seto nodded. "I see. Well, you get some sleep, then. I'll make you breakfast in the morning, all right? How would that be?"

"You don't have to," Mokuba said quickly, and while the sincerity of that statement stung, the concern behind it made Seto smile. _I know that, _that smile said, and Mokuba caught it. His own smile returned, and he said, "...Thanks, Niisama."

"Of course." Seto stood, tucked his brother in again, and turned off the lamp.

"Love you," Mokuba said, as he often did these days. There had been a fair stretch of time that those words hadn't been entirely necessary for either of them. But Seto could not say that he wanted those days back. Not in the slightest.

"I love you, too," Seto said as he closed the door.

And as he walked down the hallway toward his office, he thought idly that each time he said those words...it became easier to say them again.

* * *

**END**

* * *

_**I know that Roland's name in the original Japanese version is Isano. I've decided to use Roland for a very simple reason: I really like the name Roland. You'll notice that I have quite a few divergences when it comes to names. You'll see dub names and original names scattered throughout the project. I do this because I've seen both versions, and both of them integrate themselves into my mind as time goes on.**_

_**Although the general idea is: if I like one name over the other, I'll use it.**_

_**If any of you are wondering about why Seto's so...mushy, I guess you want to call it, wherever Mokuba is concerned, there's a reason for that. Just like why he's so hostile toward Matt. It's not just because I think Mokuba is his soft spot. There's a specific reason why he's somewhat over the top. You'll see what I mean after this three-part arc is finished.**_

_**That's when the fun really starts.**_


	11. Born to be a Mama's Boy III

_**So far, this is the longest chapter, as perhaps befitting the conclusion of a mini-arc. This storyline is something I might have submitted as a three-shot story of its own. Granted, the inclusion of Connor in the first chapter wouldn't have worked without the context set forth by the rest of the collection, but in essence, this stands on its own decently well, I think. That was my original intent, although I fully admit that it has become something entirely different as I've continued to work through it.**_

_**I'm pleased both by the positive reaction to Gloria, as she was a fun character to write in, sparse as her time in the spotlight may be; and also the positive reaction to this work in general. I've mentioned that this is my favorite story to work on, and as such, I love to see what you all think of it, as well. What began as an experiment is turning into something I'm immensely proud of, and to have one's audience's approval is perhaps the greatest thing any writer can aspire to. But before I make a fool of myself further, let us continue with the story.**_

_**This is "Mother," the third and final installment of "Born to be a Mama's Boy." A touch of Seto's true "essence," metaphorically speaking, comes through here. **_

_**All thanks to Mokuba, of course.**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

_**Mokie's bored here.**_

_**I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I did a lot of reading before he was born, and I know he's getting to the age when he should be playing with other kids. He should be learning social skills and things like that from his peers now, not from me. But there aren't any other kids his age in this muck-bowl orphanage, and the older ones don't want anything to do with "the baby."**_

_**I think I hate them. I know Mother said that hatred is a useless emotion. And I should believe her. She knew everything. But it's just not fair, what they do to him. He's just a little boy, like any of us, and why shouldn't he be allowed to have any friends? I know they don't like me, and I don't care. I'm smarter than they are, and they don't like it, and I don't care. But Mokie just wants to have fun. Why isn't he allowed to have any fun?**_

_**A couple of the adults know he's being ignored, and with him, at least, they make an effort. I don't care if they don't want to help me. They're right. I don't need help. I do well enough by myself. They should put their effort into helping the others. I'm fine. And I'm glad that they're trying to help Mokie. But it doesn't really help. He needs friends his own age. He needs to be able to play the games that he wants to, with someone who will play at his level.**_

_**I try to play with him as much as I can, and I think he likes learning chess. But it's hard for him. He doesn't really understand it, and that's not a surprise. He's only four. But I guess he thinks that if it's a game I like to play, then he should learn it, too.**_

_**He's started calling me "Niisama." I think maybe he heard it on TV somewhere, and asked one of the adults what it meant. I guess he likes it. Truthfully, I think I like it, too. It's nice. He can't pronounce it right yet, though. I'm trying to teach him. It's cute. I guess maybe since he has a nickname, he thinks I should have one, too.**_

_**Mother used to call me "Seto-chan." But it would be kind of weird for Mokie to call me that. Once she was pregnant, she moved on to "Seto-kun," but that's weird, too. Not the sort of thing you call your big brother, I guess. Miss Hathaway, who knows Japanese pretty well, I think she said she learned it in college, told Mokie that maybe he should call me "Oniichan," but Mokie likes Niisama. I'm glad.**_

_**Mister Kelvin knows Japanese fairly well, too, and he's annoyed. He says Mokie doesn't know what he's saying, and that respect shouldn't be given out so frivolously (like a four-year-old is going to know what "frivolously" means, anyway). Miss Hathaway told him that earning the respect of a kid Mokie's age isn't all that hard. Maybe he should try it sometime.**_

* * *

"He's a sweetheart if you give him a chance."

Kristine Hathaway was an eternal peacemaker. She was a woman who could not abide by conflict, and did all in her power—which admittedly was not very extensive—to resolve it. In short, good people loved her, bad people walked on her.

Gregory Kelvin was a walking man.

"The boy's a menace," he muttered.

"He's a menace because he doesn't cave," Daniel Elliot, who seemed to have taken it upon himself to be Kelvin's eternal rival and so chose to back Kristine on the particular subject of Yagami Seto, said. His backing had strengthened Kristine's own conviction. "He doesn't balk. The sad fact, Greg, is that you're intimidated by him. I think most of us are."

_"Intimidated?"_ Kelvin scoffed. "By a skinny little ten-year-old—"

"He's twelve," Kristine put in.

"Whatever!"

"Okay, Greg," Daniel said offhandedly. "In that case, we'll just say your sister weighs 600 pounds. I mean, whatever, right? Get over yourself. I know there's supposed to be a bully in every establishment, but by God, man, you're starting to sound just plain pathetic."

Kelvin scowled. "I get it that you want to coddle that little upstart, but the fact remains, whether you want to see it or not, that he's violent. Or did you not _see _what he did to—"

"_Don't_ let's talk about that," Kristine said, and her voice was stern but wavering, unused to such tones, "because you know as well as I do that David deserved that. He was antagonizing the little one, _again, _and I've been telling you time and time again to _do _something about it. You're forcing Yagami-kun to do your job for you, and...I daresay he's done a more effective, if unethical, job of it than you would have...if you'd ever decided to."

"Oh, so I am to—"

"Okay, this 'woe is me, I'm going to take everything you say and make it into a personal attack' shtick?" Daniel cut in. "Needs to _stop, _Greg. Yagami Seto has more bruises than any of the other boys here, and they're _not _from _instigating _fights. For God's sake, man, we're supposed to be _raising _these children, not turning this place into a goddamned gladiatorial arena! You're letting it turn into one, and if you do, Yagami Seto will fight his way to freedom, come whatever may."

Kelvin crossed his arms haughtily. "_Look," _he said, "I know the boy's had a rough life, all right? And maybe there _is _a reason for his attitude. That isn't the issue. The point is, he's dangerous. He's too violent. Justify it all you want. He's a danger."

"He's a danger because you aren't doing enough to keep danger _from _him," Kristine said, and Daniel nodded. "He's a danger because we've forced him to become one. Take the danger away from him for once in his life, away from his _brother _for once in _his _life, and Yagami Seto wouldn't need to be so 'violent.'"

Daniel crossed _his _arms sternly. "Greg...the boy's a survivor. It's all he knows. And we _haven't _done enough to teach him otherwise. Kris and I are trying, but we're the only ones who are. The rest of you are not just doing nothing, you're enabling the ones responsible for sending him on the downward spiral you like to condemn him for."

Daniel did not allow Kelvin to respond, choosing that moment to turn back toward where Yagami Seto was trying to teach his brother how the knight worked in chess, holding little Mokuba's hand up in front of him in the shape of an "L."

Mokuba was staring at his hand like it was a living creature.

Looking at the pair, Daniel couldn't help but hate Gregory Kelvin a little. Seto's face was fair, handsome, almost delicate. He was smiling, laughing, and he did not look at all like the powder keg Kelvin made him out to be. But, he supposed he had to be fair, because when Yagami Seto was angry, or even just slightly irritated or offended, or generally _any _emotion that _wasn't _pleasant, his face hardened and he looked rather frightening.

"If you want to help him so much, why not look at the supposed cause of his problems?" Kelvin said, and Daniel stopped. "Why not take the weight off his shoulders, then, and put the younger one somewhere els—"

_"No."_

Daniel snapped his head back, and there was terror in his eyes.

Kelvin blinked. "...But...plenty of people have asked about the younger one, and if it's causing them both so much grief, then...why...?"

_Because, _Daniel Elliot thought, but did not say, knew far better than to say, _he _is _violent, justified or not. And if you try to take his brother from him...he'll kill you. _

And from the look on Kristine's face, she knew it just as well as he did.

No one..._no one..._took Yagami Seto's brother away from him. It was not allowed. It was not tolerated. It was a sacrilege, and Seto had enough reason to hate most—if not all—adults already. To give him another would not only be counterproductive.

It would be insane.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

The thing about Seto and Mokuba Kaiba that most people didn't understand was that Mokuba was not the least bit delusional as to what his brother was. He knew better than any just what Seto was capable of. He knew that his brother was violent, that he had a temper; that he was dangerous.

The common assumption, though, was that he did not. And that _that _was why Mokuba adored him (this applied, of course, only to those who believed that Mokuba _did _adore him). But that just wasn't true. Seto knew that if it had been, then Mokuba would have long since hated him by now. Because deception was _not _something that Seto Kaiba engaged in. He did not sugarcoat, and he did not hide.

"Mokuba does not love me because he thinks I'm perfect," Seto had said once, on one of the handful of occasions that he had gone on public record about his relationship with his brother, "and indeed, if I tried to be perfect, he wouldn't love me at all. He might admire me. Might respect me. But it would be stale. Sterile. Empty."

"I love him because he's sacrificed for me," Mokuba had said on the same subject, during the same interview. "He's gone without for me. He's—"

Mokuba had been speaking to a talk show host when he'd said that. And said host had snickered, rather loudly, in response. One of the few times in his life Seto had been struck senseless with shock had been when Mokuba stopped mid-sentence, and said instead, any and all expression completely wiped from his face,

"Thank you. That was _awesome._"

And the black-haired boy, ten at the time, had stood from his chair, and walked offstage.

That was the end of it.

Seto, after a moment of stunned surprise, stood up as well, and followed his brother.

They had not found out until much later, when they had happened across that recording, that the other guest of the show that day, Pegasus Crawford of all people, had said in response to Mokuba's sudden departure, "For all who wonder why Mokuba Kaiba often refuses to speak of his brother, you now have your answer: it is because nobody listens to him."

It had been the one time in his entire life that Seto—and, indeed, Mokuba—had ever come close to liking Pegasus Crawford.

Seto was not sure why that particular event came to him as he sat in his office on October 25th, trying with all his considerable willpower to forget that date's significance. But it brought a smile to his face now. He could not remember ever being prouder of his little brother, could not remember ever loving him so much, as when he had walked off that stage.

People assumed Seto did not actually love Mokuba, and that those rare examples of affection that the public was allowed to see were simply a façade. But if Seto had ever been in a mood to explain, and had ever thought that his words might actually be heard, then he might have told them that the truth was that he loved Mokuba so much sometimes that it ached. He, much like Mokuba himself had done with Connor Brinkley, clung to his kid brother like a lifeline, knowing that this was one of the only people who truly understood him. And there would never be gratitude enough for that.

And this all he thought _before _he discovered just what it was that Mokuba had managed to conjure for his brother's twentieth birthday.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

He had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

Even Travis, who did not know Yagami Yuki from any other woman, was stunned when Gloria Haley unveiled her latest creation. Mokuba thought, as he looked upon the pastel painting of his mother, that the money he had given for it was far too much a pittance to ever be enough.

Haley was positively aglow as she watched Mokuba's reaction. Here, in his face and his eyes, was her proof that she had made true on her promise: she had delivered; she had created a masterpiece.

Mokuba felt not just warm. No. What he felt was an almost unbearable feeling of intangible euphoria, running down his spine and causing him to shiver. It made his skin tingle, it made his heart constrict; it blossomed in his stomach.

Yuki's eyes, a sparkling violet like amethysts caught in brightest summer sunlight, shone down on him; and her smile, subtle and magnificent, felt like her slender, gentle arms around him; and he thought he might remember being rocked to sleep by those arms, in those scant few hours just after his birth; and if he did not remember, then he knew that it must have felt like this. Her face had the hand-sculpted perfection of an ancient goddess, her jet-black hair falling like a midnight waterfall over her shoulders.

Mokuba could even see a bit of himself in her now. In the eyes, and the face, especially in the soft smile that curved her subtly red lips. He hadn't really seen it in the photo; it had been too small. But as he looked at the huge canvas in Gloria Haley's ungodly gifted hands, Mokuba was embarrassed that he hadn't known his mother from his first moment of seeing her.

And he realized: Yagami Yuki was the most beautiful woman in the world.

How could Gloria Haley have done this? he might have thought, if he'd had the ability to think tangibly of anything. How can this be possible? How could a painting, a flat recreation of reality twice removed from itself, be so...so...

He tried to speak.

"Don't bother, sweetie," Haley told him when he couldn't, grinning from ear to ear. "Your eyes just gave me the greatest compliment I could ever have asked for. Thank you, Mokuba. You don't know what it means to me. You take this, and you give it to your brother."

She hadn't signed it. She hadn't marred the surface of the painting with her signature. The mark of her work was on the underside of the canvas, miniscule and unseen beneath the frame. And Haley thought that there was no question, now: this painting, that only four people, one of them herself, would ever see, was the best work she had ever done, and would ever do.

And the look on Mokuba's face when he saw it was a gift in itself, and _she _almost handed him his money back, even as Mokuba contemplated in some distant part of his own mind paying her more. She did not know who the woman in the painting was, although she had an idea, but she did know that whoever she had been, it would have been an honor to meet her. It certainly had been an honor to paint her.

But Haley did not yet know the real gift that would come from this work.

She had no way of knowing, and would not know until two weeks later, just what she had done in taking this commission from Mokuba Kaiba. But she _would _know, and she would marvel, at the realization that the endorsement of a Kaiba meant more to the people of Domino City than she had ever understood.

She had no way of knowing that from this moment, as she watched—with tears burning the backs of her eyes—Mokuba leave her shop with his brother's birthday gift in tow, she would never have to worry about a lack of business, or a lack of income, another day in her life.

As if the God of her youth Himself were thanking her for bringing one of His angels back to life.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Now that it was over, Mokuba didn't feel excitement. Rather, he felt contentment. He felt calm. As he stepped out of Seto's office after Travis helped him put the framed painting up (in the center of the wall opposite the door, to the left of Seto's desk), Mokuba simply smiled.

"Bet you can't wait for him to get home, huh?" Travis asked, but that wasn't true.

Now that it was done, Mokuba just felt...good.

Travis left at eight-thirty, grinning widely and promising Mokuba that word of Yuki's painting would never leave his lips, and Mokuba smiled in response; they both knew the assurance was unnecessary. Travis Copeland, like Roland Ackerman, were members of the inner circle, those select few people that Mokuba had come to think of, jokingly, as the NRA (Niisama's Registered Associates), and there would be no worrying about secrets leaking out from him.

He found himself in the kitchen minutes later, whistling while he stirred the steak and bell peppers in the skillet for his dinner, knowing that Seto would not be home early because try as he might to forget it, Seto always remembered his own birthday, and always tried to bury himself in obstinate defiance by staying at work at least until ten. Mokuba wasn't disappointed. He knew how this went.

He sat down at the dining room table, fajita filling sizzling like it always did at restaurants on his plate. He turned on the stereo system, turning to a classical music station that Seto sometimes listened to when he could not abide by his usual silence, and actually recognized a piece that Seto could play, and _had_ played a few times on the piano in the front parlor.

He ate his dinner quietly, slowly, feeling a nice, peaceful tiredness settling over himself as he did, and thought that he would sleep very well tonight. He thought about the painting in his brother's office, and his smile widened. He was not excited, in the typical sense, but he did wonder what Seto's reaction to it would be. He was not worried that Seto would be upset; the idea never once crossed his mind. No. That wouldn't happen.

Someone else, like Travis or Haley, might have assumed that Mokuba would follow his brother to his office, maybe pulling him by the hand, saying, "C'mon, I have to show you something, hurry up," so that he could see Seto's first impression of his gift.

But Mokuba would have laughed at such a notion.

He knew, intuitively, how Seto would react. And he knew that he could not bear witness to that. It would be a trespass. No, Seto had to be alone. At least at first. He knew this, and so he never once thought of following Seto or even mentioning anything to him when he came home. There was no need. Seto would know that Mokuba had gotten him something, and had grown to appreciate his brother's quiet courtesy in never making a big deal out of it.

When Seto stepped into the parlor about an hour after Mokuba had finished dinner, the boy was sitting on the couch and watching a movie. They looked at each other, and Mokuba greeted him, and Seto nodded with a smile as he set his briefcase down and hung up his coat.

Seto left for his office, and Mokuba said nothing.

But his smile nearly reached his ears.

* * *

**5.**

* * *

Seto knew, in that same distant way that he knew it was spring in the southern hemisphere, that Mokuba had gotten him a gift. And his gratitude, just as muted as the knowledge, was there, but not something that he paid much attention to. It was, like everything in Kaiba Manor, a routine, and it did not bear speaking, nor thinking, of. It happened, he knew it, and yes, he appreciated it. But he did so quietly, and Mokuba knew that he did.

He gave some passing thought to actually thanking Mokuba this time. He was in a rather good mood, which was odd because this day usually put him in a sour one, and anyway...the boy deserved it, didn't he? Communication—of the personal sort, the intimate sort—had never been Seto Kaiba's strong suit, but...he _was_ making progress. So maybe...

This thought ground to a halt as he flicked on the light in his office and stepped inside.

Mokuba had been speechless. Travis Copeland had been stunned. Gloria Haley had been glowingly proud. But as Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba lay eyes on the pastel painting of his mother for the first time, he was nothing. His mind shut off.

He fell to his knees.

* * *

**6.**

* * *

She sings to him at bedtime.

There are days when he falls asleep too early, at the volition of exhaustion, perhaps, and she isn't able to, but every night that he actually goes to bed at his established time—which is most nights—she sings to him.

Do the songs she sings have words? He knows that they must, but he cannot tell what any of them are. Because it isn't the words he listens to. Her voice, Mother's voice, is what he hears. It is all he hears, and it is all he needs to hear. He feels her hand stroke back his hair, he sees her face so clearly in the moonlight, and it is all he needs to know.

Mother is here.

Mother is singing to him.

He does not need to worry now. He does not need to think about his math test on Thursday; if he will play basketball or if he will have free time in PE; if the mean boy from seat 6D will try to force him to switch homework papers again; if the girl in seat 3A will smile at him again; he does not need to think about any of that, he forgets all of that, because Mother is singing, and her voice is beautiful.

She finishes her song, and Mother smiles. "Sweet dreams, my angel," she whispers to him, and kisses his forehead before she tucks his blanket under his chin and stands up. He looks at her worshipfully, and he tells her that he loves her.

"I love you, too, Seto-chan," she says, and he smiles because he knows.

She stops in the doorway, a blank silhouette, and turns back to him again. "Night-night," she says gently, and he closes his eyes as she shuts the door. And he sleeps, and he dreams, and he is happy; because in his dreams, Mother is still singing.

And Mother's voice is beautiful.

* * *

**7.**

* * *

_I know this, _some part of his mind thought distantly, as he stared.

Yes, he knew it. He knew it well. And yet he didn't. This was not the same. It was not what he remembered. If the photograph that he remembered was the surface, then this scene in front of him was the core, transcendent and glowing and...and...

Seto was a child again. He was not dressed in cleanly pressed, crisp black slacks and a navy button-down shirt. He was not six feet tall, his face was not angular, his eyes were not sharp, and if he had had a voice with which to speak, it would not be deep, and it would not be harsh.

He was eight years old, dressed in shorts and a white polo shirt, and Yagami Kohaku was smiling as he helped his son hold up the camera, because it was heavy and Seto was thin, and Yuki sat on a bench with a rose in her hand. She did not know that she was pregnant, not yet, but she would soon. Seto knew only that she was so very pretty, and that she was his.

He took the picture, and it was perfect, and Yuki smiled and hugged him, and he might have complained that he was a big boy now, too old to need a hug and a congratulatory kiss on the top of his head for just taking a silly old picture, except he forgot to tell her because he was too busy smiling. Kohaku ruffled his hair, and when the picture was developed he said that Seto would be a photographer someday, a damn good one.

He kept that picture, because it was his. And he thought, as he held Mokuba in his arms at Yuki's funeral, that he should toss the picture onto the coffin as it was lowered into the ground, and he almost did, but he couldn't. Because...because...

He kept the picture in his journal, the journal she had given him on his sixth birthday, and he did not look at it again until three years later, on the day he buried his father and became one himself. And even though he continued to write in that journal until it was filled, almost a full year after he had become Kaiba and not Yagami, he did not look at the picture again. He forgot, because Otousama made him forget, and he did not try to remember.

He stared now, twenty years old, at that old picture, made new on canvas and framed on his office wall, and he could not find words. He had no words. There _were_ no words.

Because Mother was still singing.

And Mother's voice was still beautiful.

* * *

**8.**

* * *

Mokuba did not need an answer. He did not need to know, because he knew already.

He thought he knew, anyway. He thought that when Seto came out of his office, he would say nothing. But he would smile, and that would be all the answer Mokuba would ever need. He thought that he might hear something different in Seto's voice, something softer and gentler, when he said goodnight, and that would be more than enough.

But when Seto came out into the front parlor, and Mokuba looked up, he did not see a smile.

And all at once, Mokuba felt terrified.

Oh, God. He didn't like it. He hated it. He hated it and he hated _him _for daring to give it to him. Mokuba jumped to his feet, unable to tear his eyes away from the horrible emptiness on his brother's face, and tried to apologize.

But then Seto almost collapsed to his knees, and hugged him. Hugged him so tightly that he couldn't breathe, and Mokuba had his answer. All the answer he would ever need. And for the first time, Seto did not flinch when Mokuba finally whispered,

"Happy birthday, Niisama."

* * *

**END**

* * *

_**I will be the first to admit that I cannot, no matter how long I take, fully encompass the image in my head of Gloria's painting. Not in words. I don't think it's possible. But I think that you might just understand what's there, despite that. It's the culmination, the zenith, if you will, of Seto's past. Of every pleasant memory he has. This is why Mokuba takes after his mother, aesthetically. It's why I specified that she was already pregnant with Mokuba when the original picture was taken, and why Seto was the one to take it. **_

_**I do not usually abide by symbolism, in the standard sense. I don't go out of my way to use it. I don't specify symbols for ideas because I believe that if you do your job right as a writer, you don't need to beat people over the head with symbolism. It's already there. The ideas are already there. The writer's job is to show the audience what they are, and symbolism for symbolism's sake is a crutch. However, this painting, this birthday gift, is perhaps the most overt symbol I've ever put into my work. **_

_**Because I think it's that important. It's important to realize that Yuki was the source of Seto's happiness as a child. She was his lifeline. She was the emotional attachment that all children need to grow properly, just like Seto himself was for Mokuba. And for Mokuba to be the one to give his brother this gift is also important, because he is the only one from whom it would not be an insult. If you take anything from this story about the core of Seto's character, take this: he was happy once. He was content once. He was normal once.**_

_**And there was once a woman who loved him, who taught him and protected him, and that woman was important.  
**_


	12. Shot in the Dark I

_**As of today, July 21st of 2009, the second chapter of this story, "To Shoulder the Burden," has been revised. Anybody who has read that chapter before today might want to look at it again. It's not necessary that you do that; the important thing I would ask you to do is this: ignore the final scene of chapter two. Pretend it never happened. The events of Mokuba's fourth kidnapping have unfolded differently, as you will see beginning here, with this chapter. This storyline is going to stretch over the remaining chapters of this first arc. This is the season finale, if you will. This doesn't mean the story is over, though. I'm not done by a long shot. This is a pivotal event in the story.**_

_**This first section, "Set the Record," begins shortly after Seto's birthday, with Joey and Tristan telling the story of what happened to Mokuba—and Seto—the fourth time he was kidnapped. Thus, the majority of this storyline is a flashback. Every so many scenes, the date will change. Keep an eye on that. I'll indicate it each time. So, sit back and enjoy the ride. It was a tough storyline to write, that took a long time to figure out, but I think it was worth it. Hopefully, you do as well.**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

_October 29, 2007  
_

* * *

"Téa!"

It was probably a law by now, as irrefutable as that of gravity: Yugi Motou would always have the exuberance and enthusiasm (and height) of a child.

It had been a long time since Téa Gardner had been in Domino City. Her studies in New York had her busier than she'd ever been, and she barely even found time to _call_ her friends anymore; instead, she made a point to write a long email every weekend. Usually on Saturday evenings.

But she had finally been able to set aside two weeks to come home, and to say that Yugi was excited to see her would have been a criminal understatement.

He was explosive.

"Yugi!" came Téa's just-as-explosively excited reply, and they hugged each other for the first time in almost a year.

Joey and Tristan, watching from the other side of the room, smirked with light amusement. Yugi hadn't exactly grown much in the time that he and Téa had been apart and, in what had to be an ingrained habit, Téa had instinctively bent low to accommodate him.

When she pulled away from Yugi and found a hug for Joey, too, the blond would have been lying if he'd said he wasn't surprised. Not that he didn't appreciate, and reciprocate, the gesture, but something he had gotten used to over the years was the knowledge that there would always be something of a…well, a _rift_ between them.

He supposed Téa had never fully forgiven Joey _or _Tristan for having bullied Yugi in his freshman year of high school, and Joey understood—even appreciated—that fact. They had been linked through Yugi, but had never been especially...close.

"How's it goin', Téa?" he asked, deciding that he wasn't going to question good fortune, and chuckled as he took in the sight of her.

The woman that he had always thought of as a girl had gained a fair amount of muscle in her time away, which he noticed quite keenly as he noted the length of her exposed, tanned legs. Quickly, he forced himself to lift his eyes to Téa's face, before she figured out that he had been staring, and noticed that she had allowed her hair to grow a bit longer than usual.

He wouldn't have admitted it (it would have been like hitting on his sister), but..._damn_.

"Great!" Téa cried happily, not seeing or ignoring Joey's newfound appreciation. "Things are going really well. I have a performance lined up for next month."

"No kiddin'? That's awesome. Gotta film it for us or somethin'. See what all that school's done for ya."

Téa grinned, and looked fondly around at the interior of the shop, and when Tristan finally stood up—he'd caught the hem of his shirt on his chair—Téa hugged him as well. Tristan smiled as he returned the embrace, but it was clear that he wasn't quite awake.

"You guys are looking good," she said. "How's it been going for you all?"

"Not too shabby," Joey said with a grin. "I'm lookin' into buyin' a place up the street, closer to the 'workplace,' ya know. It's small, but it'll work for me. I know the owner. Started savin' up a couple months back."

"Really? Good for you!"

"Grandpa and Professor Hawkins are planning a trip to Egypt soon," Yugi put in, "for old times' sake."

Téa smiled. "I can only imagine what those two will get up to." She glanced at Tristan. "What about you, Tristan? What have you been doing?"

Tristan let out an involuntary yawn. "Uh...nothin', really."

"What's with you?" Joey asked.

"Sorry, Téa," Tristan said, waving a hand in front of himself. "I didn't...didn't get to sleep 'til about three last night."

Téa frowned, worried. "How come?"

Tristan gestured nonsensically. "This whole...college thing. Goin' to Westridge now. And I, uh...ran into Jackass McMoron last night."

"Who?" Téa asked.

"Eh?" added Joey.

"Y'know, Joe. Mohawk. Bracelets. Simple Plan."

Joey's eyes narrowed slightly. "What was _he _doin'?"

"Dunno. Didn't ask. Guy split, soon's he saw me."

"Simple Plan?" Téa wondered.

"Guy named, uh...Kerns? That it? Matt Kerns? I think so." Joey shrugged, scratching at his chin. "Sleaze-job. Teenage punk, tryna act tough. Y'know, like me. Only stupider."

Téa laughed. "Way to steal my joke, Joey."

"Uh-huh. Well, anyway, Tris'n me, we're keepin' an eye out on this guy. Been homin' in on the wrong target, right? Guy thinks it's cool to mess around with Mokuba."

"Mokuba? As in Kaiba?"

"No," Joey said, frowning, "Mokuba Hawthorne. O' _course _Kaiba! Yeah, so, anyways...Kaiba kinda hired us, I guess ya could call it, to watch out for 'im."

Téa's eyes hardened. "Kaiba. You guys are...working for Kaiba."

Joey blinked at the suddenly dark, accusatory tone in his friend's voice. "We're, uh...lookin' out for _Mokuba, _so not exactly, but anyway, we ain't gettin' paid, either, so...it ain't even really _work_. But why's that matter, anyways? Worse things'n workin' for a rich guy."

Téa stared incredulously. "You..._do _know what that man _did?"_

"Well," Joey said flatly, "I know he's buildin' a hospital. Don't think that's whatcher talkin' about, though."

"Tch. Figures. It just figures. Finds a way to ruin _everything._"

"What's _your _deal all'a'sudden?"

Téa found one of her bags, reached inside, and produced a newspaper. She thrust it in the blond's direction, scowling angrily now. _"This,"_ she snapped. "I wanted to go directly to _him _about this, but I guess there's no reason."

Joey glanced at the paper.

* * *

_Seto Kaiba, the seventeen-year-old CEO of the Kaiba Electronic Gaming Corporation, shot and killed a rival business tycoon this evening. The brutal murder, which took place on the front lawn of the victim's home, and the refusal by local law enforcement officials to take action against Mister Kaiba, have been described as the most blatant display of corruption in California's legal history._

* * *

Téa looked at her friend after he'd finished reading, expecting him to say something, to react. Clearly he was expected to be shocked, and disgusted, angry and maybe even betrayed. _Holy shit, _he was probably expected to say. _I knew he was a jerk, but I didn't think he'd pull somethin' like _this. _Somebody oughtta lock the fucker up! He's a monster!_

But Joey said none of these things. In fact, he didn't say anything.

He started laughing.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"Gah...I...I, wha...huh..._what's so funny?"_

Joey drew in a deep breath to calm himself. "Oh…nothin'. Just, ah…don't go to Kaiba 'bout this. He ain't gonna say anything. One thing, Kaiba was _eighteen, _not seventeen. Mokuba tol' me. And he wasn't on the front lawn, either. It was in the parlor. Saw it myself…sorta. Hell of a shot. You'd a' thought he got trained by the frickin' Marines. Far's I know, he _was._"

Téa continued to stare at him. "You...you were _there?"_

"Oh, yeah. I was there, a'right."

Tristan stepped forward. "Lemme see that paper, wouldja?"

He took the paper and read over it. As he did, a frown slowly grew on his face, evolving into a full-on scowl. "This is…just…_stupid!_ They don't have one detail in _twenty._ You see this, Joe? Don't even mention the sleaze-bucket's _name."_

Joey took the paper and scanned it. He barked another, humorless laugh. "Dressed up a tabloid in a fancy suit," he said as he shook his head. "This's shoddier'n somethin' you'd find on the back of a napkin. Where'd you get this, Téa?"

"Uh..." Téa blinked, clearly still off balance. "I...just a...one of those dispensers...you know, like the ones outside grocery stores, why? Are you actually saying Kaiba _didn't _kill somebody?"

"What I'm sayin'," Joey said, tossing the paper away in disgust, "izzat it ain't as simple as 'kill' or 'didn't kill.' There _is _such a thing as self-defense, butcha wouldn't know it from _that _thing."

"Tch," Téa said. "I wonder _why _I don't believe that..."

There was a beat of silence.

Tristan was the only one to see it immediately. Yugi would see it soon enough, but even he didn't understand Joey's moods as well as Tristan, who had seen the blond fight enough times to be able to read him as easily as an LED screen when it came to stuff like this.

Téa didn't see it at all.

_I think Kaiba would, _Tristan thought idly, and not for the first time over the past year marveled at the similarities between his best friend and the man who had once been at the top of his "guys I'd like to punch in the throat" list. As soon as he thought it, though, he was sure of it.

Kaiba would have known what this was.

Battle fever.

Joey held to that ultimately chauvinistic convention of never striking a woman, but he was coming too close for comfort to breaking that vow. His mouth was tilted up in a smile, but it was about as real as a nine-dollar bill. His right hand twitched spasmodically, and his eyes fought valiantly against the desire to narrow.

"Believe it or don't," the blond said, voice almost—but not quite—choked. "Don't change facts."

_You're getting as protective of the guy's reputation as Mokuba, _Tristan thought.

He almost wanted to laugh, himself.

"Sorry, Joey," Téa said, and it was in that not-in-the-slightest apologetic tone that said she was saying it simply to preface an inevitable but-you're-wrong argument, "I just don't believe it. I know enough about Kaiba that it just doesn't—"

"You don't know Kaiba from Rockefeller," Tristan felt the urge to cut in, harsher than he'd meant to. "Mokuba would slap you for sayin' that, and I'm disinclined to say he'd be wrong about it. You're not listening…but I guess that's no surprise."

He'd meant to imply that Téa would, of course, disbelieve anything good about Seto Kaiba because he'd never done anything to make her think him capable of such things, but it seemed from the sudden, offended widening of Téa's eyes that she'd taken it another way entirely.

"This is supposed to be a nice day," Yugi said, before Téa even started to ask Tristan how he dared, and the icy tone of his voice reminded all three of them forcefully of Yami, the Fourth Dynasty pharaoh that had once taken up residence in their small friend's mind, "and you're turning it into an argument, Téa."

_"I'm _turning it—"

_"Yes,_ Téa. You are," Yugi said, and his tone was severely reprimanding.

He, unlike Joey, stopped Téa cold. And Joey thought it was a damn funny prospect that he'd _ever_ thought Yugi Motou needed to be "toughened up." There was more Yami in Yugi's face than there had ever been, and Joey remembered that the Egyptologist by the name of Isis Ishtar had once told him Yugi was the ancient gambler's reincarnation. It didn't surprise him in the slightest.

"Let's play the what-if game, Téa," Yugi said, eyebrows rising slowly. "What if I was walking home with you, and somebody came up behind us and grabbed me? What if this person had a weapon, and I was about to die? What if you had a gun in your backpack? What...would you do?"

_You shoulda taken up debate in high school, _Tristan mused, fighting the smirk from his face as Téa stared at Yugi with the look of someone who'd just been hit in the stomach with a lead pipe. He glanced at Joey, whose anger—like the heat of a supergiant star—had run its short-lived, blazing course and was beginning to smolder. He was still nowhere resembling calm, but he was nonetheless _calmer._

"I...I would..." Téa began, unsure of herself, her own indignant anger wavering and dying as she watched Yugi's unnaturally stern face (with a more forceful memory of Yami than either of the others), "I...would try to...to s-shoot...if I knew...knew h-how..."

Yugi allowed a slight smile onto his face. "Kaiba knows how."

"He did what he had to," Tristan added.

Joey, breathing deeply and quirking an irritated eyebrow, said, "Ready to hear the _whole_ story, Téa?"

* * *

**3.**

* * *

"You'll have to be more specific, Mokuba."

Once.

Just once.

Just _one _time, Mokuba would have liked to see his brother react to a personal attack on his character with more than a cursory, purely analytical glance. Most of him was impressed that Seto refused to let things of this nature bother him, but the rest of him was peeved because it made _his _anger at things of this nature seem so...shallow.

_"This!" _Mokuba cried irritably, waving the newspaper clutched in his right hand with a kind of triumphant fury as if it were a defaced flag. "It...it says...you...!"

He couldn't speak.

Seto took the crumpled paper from his brother and glanced at it. He chuckled humorlessly without even a hint of his usual smirk. He said, "Typical. You shouldn't let it bother you, kid. Enough people got it right that this is no more valid than any other political spin. So someone _else _wants to paint me as a murderer. Let them. This may just _help _me, in the long run."

Mokuba was so frustrated that he looked ready to cry. He _did _let out a small, sob-like cough, blinking furiously. "N-Niisama! You..._you...!"_ His voice was strangled, confused, and his arms gave a spasm like he wanted to punch something.

Seto looked over at Mokuba, and something about his face made the younger Kaiba feel a bit—but not much—calmer. Impeccable Niisama, eyes straight forward and as dry as the noontime Mojave, his thin line of a mouth not even a micrometer out of shape. He smiled, suddenly, and reached out his arm to pull his brother into a hug.

"Hey..." he murmured softly, gently, and Mokuba forced himself not to cry even though the urge to was so overwhelming that he had to bite his lip hard enough to bleed in order to do it, and that caused tears of _pain, _anyway. "It's all right, kiddo. C'mon...don't let this get you worked up. _We_ know what happened."

"And _they _should, too," Mokuba said, muffled. "I wanna see somebody _thank _you for once...just _once! _How come everything you do has to be evil to them? Jerks...stupid _jerks..._I hate them."

"Oh, now...you don't _hate _them," Seto said.

"Yeah _huh," _Mokuba pouted.

Seto's smile widened, and he chuckled. "Mokuba..._you _thank me. That's enough for me. Ironically enough, so did Wheeler, now that I think of it."

"…Told you he wasn't a _total _moron."

"I've yet to see conclusive evidence of _that. _An anomaly of mental aptitude, that's all."

Mokuba laughed, and tears came again.

"Niisama?" he managed after a moment.

Seto's response was a murmuring sound of affirmation that he felt more than he heard.

"Don't ever change...okay?"

* * *

**4.**

* * *

_September 9, 2006  
_

* * *

The problem was complacency.

It was a common trap, of course, one even the most vigilant can fall pray to, and while Mokuba Kaiba was far more vigilant than most ten-year-olds, he was still...ten years old. It would have been a safe assumption to say he never saw it coming, and a second safe assumption would be that he kicked himself because of that any number of times.

He _should _have seen it coming.

He hadn't yet started talking to Connor Brinkley because he hadn't yet transferred to East Rivers Middle School, and so he walked across the parking lot of Oakwood Elementary alone (well, _almost_ alone), backpack slung over his shoulder, in a good enough mood to actually wave as he glanced at the throng of people pointing and gaping at him, which elicited a collective scream of joy from some of the more excitable set.

They'd learned from previous experience that actually approaching Mokuba was a bad idea (because Seto apparently knew _every _phone number in Domino City, and children were easy to intimidate), but that didn't stop his fans—who were becoming more and more numerous, the more often he found himself on television—from following him at a distance.

If only _they _had seen it...they'd have gone ballistic.

And a fangirl stampede would have been rather funny to watch.

But for the moment, he wasn't thinking of anything in particular except, distantly, when Seto would be home. One of his few duties as honorary vice-president of Kaiba-Corp, which _he _thought of more as a perk, was to test new projects once in the final stages of production. And this day, he was particularly engrossed.

He thought that, had Seto been younger—fifteen, say, when he had first taken over their adoptive father's position—he might have called it a "training program for up-and-coming duelists" (of which the young Kaiba might have considered himself), because whether he liked to admit it or not, Seto _had _been a kid at fifteen, still holding true to that fanciful egocentricity that gave supreme importance to everything _he _liked to do.

But now, at eighteen, Seto had grown more and more distant from his once-favored game. In fact, Mokuba had a feeling that his big brother hadn't revised—or even looked at—his dueling deck for at least six months.

"It's an extension of what Crawford was out to do," Seto had said, when he finally showed his brother what he'd cooked up this time. "He wanted _Magic & Wizards _to be widespread, worldwide, and he's largely succeeded. But there has been a distinct shift, especially so over the past few years, toward fully electronic entertainment. So, to keep the game alive..."

"...You made a videogame version of _Magic & Wizards," _Mokuba had finished.

"Exactly," Seto had said, when he once might have been offended.

It seemed that, through this new vision of the game, Seto had finally sparked the keen interest in it that he had always hoped Mokuba would have. It was something of an heirloom; it had been passed on. Where Seto had no time—nor inclination—to pick up his cards and head out into the arena anymore, Mokuba had finally seen the magic of it. It had just taken an iteration in _his _favored realm, videogames, to do it.

Mokuba now played the latest prototype of what had been tentatively called _Magic & Wizards: Call of the Millennium_, and it held him rapt; he finally understood those few years when Seto had never been seen without his deck in hand—or at least in pocket. The game really _was _addicting.

So addicting, in fact, that he did not bother to look up as he approached his brother's limousine; he did not notice that the man holding the door open for him was _not _Travis Copeland (although he did wear the standard-issue badge bearing the Kaiba-Corp logo on the left lapel of his suit jacket), nor did he notice that—once free of the parking lot—the vehicle went in the precise opposite direction of his home.

In fact, he might not have noticed _anything, _until the man behind the wheel finally spoke, several miles away from the school, and Kaiba Manor:

"...How was school, Little Master?"

He almost answered.

But then he remembered.

Being related to Seto, Mokuba had been called any number of titles, most of which made him uncomfortable. "Mokuba-sama," "Young Master," and "Young Sir" were some of the more common ones, "Bocchama" and "Kaiba-fukushachou" much rarer, but still common enough to remember. Seto's associates, employees, reporters, talk show hosts, members of his fan club (the fact that he even _had_ a fan club was kind of flattering, but mostly just creepy); all used one or several titles and honorifics, as if omitting them would call Seto's wrath upon them. Some of the bitter ones used them sarcastically, and those were slightly better only because it was then that Seto's wrath _was _called upon them, and Seto had come up with many, _many _ways to make random people feel like dirt.

He had only heard the very particular "Little Master" from one person.

And suddenly, he knew the voice. He remembered it, and as soon as he remembered it, his game dropped into his lap. He could almost _feel _the malignant amusement from the driver who was not Travis, and it made him cold. That cold was far from comfortable, but he wrapped it around himself like a blanket, and that feeling that he'd become intimately acquainted with in the last few years of his life settled over him; there was no time for fear. There was no room for fear.

And from that coldness came sudden warmth. This was what separated Mokuba Kaiba from most children; as he snaked his hand into his pocket and pressed and held a button on his phone to turn it off, he thought of it like a stopwatch. He did not allow himself to smirk, but he thought of doing it, and that familiar glint of deep steel that so often surprised people shone in his eyes.

It was the glint of adrenaline.

The game was on.

"...Saruwatari."

* * *

**END**

* * *

_**For those who don't know, Saruwatari is the original, official name for the man Joey called "antenna-head," Pegasus's head flunky at Duelist Kingdom, known in the dub as Kimo, and in the original manga, was Mokuba's personal bodyguard as well. Obviously, he's defected. Also, "fukushachou" is a Japanese title which means "vice president."**_

_**I think maybe it's pretty obvious from this chapter, and "Earning an Accolade" for those of you who have read that piece, that I'm not a fan of Téa Gardner (Masaki Anzu). I'm not going to lie. I hate her. She irritates me to no end, and not only because of the "friendship speeches" many fans mock her for, but because I find her to be exceptionally shallow. I will expound on this in later chapters, but I warn you now: it won't be nice. Téa fans tread lightly; I fight for the other side of the war.  
**_


	13. Shot in the Dark II

**_'Tis midnight in the cave I'm in. August 19th, 2009. For those playing the home game, this means something very significant: "Paved with Good Intentions" is now one year old. _**

**_In that time, things have evolved quite substantially. The response has been phenomenal, and I cannot tell you what it means to me that you've all been enjoying it alongside me. It's an honor. It might have been more fitting to celebrate the one-year-anniversary with a chapter more...cheerful than this one. But I guess my muse doesn't work that way. Considering my protagonist, I think you'll understand just why that is: Seto is an angst-magnet, and happy just doesn't become him. _**

**_I wish I had some profound insight to relay unto you, my fine audience, to commemorate this occasion. But all I can think to say has already been said. It's been a great year, and here's hoping the next one will surpass it._**

**_Welcome, friends, to "The Final Countdown." _**

**_Enjoy your stay._**

* * *

**1.**

* * *

"Do you have it?"

Mokuba nodded quickly, as he carefully punched the numbers into his new phone. Roland Ackerman stood nearby, looking coolly professional like he always did, in his FBI sunglasses and his classic-era butler mustache, watching his employer with detached, mild interest as Seto sat low in his chair, right wrist leaning against the edge of his desk as he twirled a pen restlessly through his fingers.

"Try it, Mokuba," Seto said, somewhat sharply.

Mokuba hit one button, then another.

Roland's cellular phone, tucked into an inner pocket of his jacket, began to ring. Roland glanced down, but did not take the device out. He raised an eyebrow at Seto, who gestured vaguely at his brother, indicating that he should terminate the call. Mokuba pressed a third button, and the ringing stopped.

Seto nodded. "Good."

"If I may speak freely, sir," Roland said slowly, and Seto glanced at him, "I am not entirely certain why you are treating the matter of a cellular telephone with such...gravity. Surely young Mokuba is trustworthy enough to use such a device responsibly? You seem as though you are giving him a weapon."

"The thought crossed my mind more than once," Seto said gravely, with an image of Pegasus Crawford planted firmly in his mind's eye. "Let us just say that my motivations for this are...less than joyous. Listen to me, Mokuba. I'm not going to place any restrictions on how often you use this phone so long as it does not present a problem. But I want you to heed me on this one thing, okay? The number you've just entered is _not _to be used regularly. Am I understood?"

"Oh...uh...okay?" Mokuba answered uncertainly, frowning curiously at his sibling, whose lips twitched in the beginnings of a smirk. With a faint amount of irritation, however, Seto kept his face neutral. Almost painfully so.

"Roland's cellular number is for emergencies," he said. "Do you understand? Emergencies requiring _immediate _attention." Seto's face was set in stone now, his eyes flaring, and Mokuba had learned long ago to pay very close attention to his brother's every word when he looked like this. "Call his office number, or my personal number, if you need assistance with something...mundane. If Copeland is late picking you up, you need a ride somewhere...if we're out of ice cream."

Mokuba smiled. Seto did not.

"Roland," Seto said now, "if that phone rings, treat it as a grave emergency. I don't care if it's midnight, if you're vomiting blood, or if you're taking your grandmother to the hospital. If Mokuba calls that phone, assume he is dying. If you find that Mokuba's phone is turned _off_ at a time that it should be on, assume he is dying. Do you understand me?"

"Of course, sir," Roland said, nodding curtly.

"Do _you _understand, Mokuba?"

"Why shouldn't I call you?" Mokuba asked suddenly.

"I don't always answer this stupid thing," Seto said, seeming to have expected the question. He gestured to his own cellular phone, charging on his desk by a set of pens and a legal pad. "You would be surprised how many home-school hackers think themselves clever and dig up that number. It's a safety precaution. So call _that_ number if you need _immediate assistance, _but for no other reason_. _All right?"

Mokuba looked at Roland for a moment, then looked back at his brother and nodded.

"Yes, Niisama."

Seto nodded in turn, satisfied.

And true to his word (as he almost always was; Mokuba took his brother's instructions seriously), Mokuba had never called Roland's cellular phone for anything outside of an emergency. Later, when he would have a confrontation with William Hunter, he would _not _call this number, because he would not believe the term "immediate assistance" to describe that situation.

Mokuba did not call immediately upon discovering his current situation, but he eventually would. Roland did not discover the problem until he checked the location of the Kaiba-Corp limousine, finding it not at Kaiba Manor, but halfway across the city. He tried to call Mokuba's phone.

It went straight to voicemail.

Roland's face paled.

"...Oh, _hell."_

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"...But if you'll just look at these figures—"

"I've _looked _at them, Grieco," Seto replied, "and it's _not _going to happen."

Alonzo Grieco was a man unused to being shut down, of that much Seto was certain. The set of the man's body told him that much. Anger was slowly mounting on his face, along with a stern set to his jaw that told Seto he was straining to hold it in.

Seto was rather impressed, to be honest.

"If you could only explain _why, _though!" Grieco insisted. "Think of the popularity, Mister Kaiba! I mean, you can't honestly say that your standard Duel Disks aren't expensive, yes? This way, _anybody _could have one. Oh, sure, there wouldn't be a hologram projector, but—"

"That's the key element to the product in the first place, Grieco," Seto said. "I have _standards. _I don't run a _toy _company, I run a _gaming _company, and these—this design you are showing me," he amended, grimacing slightly as he remembered that he _wasn't _all that annoyed with this man, "is not something I want my name on."

Grieco drew in a deep breath, crossing his arms and uncrossing them again, finally stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "...I was told you are interested foremost in profit, Mister Kaiba. Are you denying that this would be profitable?"

"No," Seto admitted, "I am not. You're likely right that this _would _work out well, but that is beside the point. This corporation has a reputation, Grieco, and I am not so desperate that I would jump at _any _chance at profit. I can afford not to; this corporation can afford not to. If you insist on pushing this idea, then keep it with you, and if I come to a point where I..."

He had stopped paying actual attention to what he was saying several seconds ago, but he continued to speak anyway, eyes shifting to the door as Roland slipped inside. He did not slam the door open, but it was clear from the set of his face that he wasn't coming to ask if you fine gentlemen would enjoy a cup of coffee, by chance.

"Master Kaiba," Roland said quickly, when Seto's voice had drifted off into silence, and his own voice was tight, stern, and tinged with a note of fear. Grieco turned, looking irritated at the interruption much like Seto might have under normal circumstances, but seemed to see that the matter was grave by Roland's stance. "The little one."

He said nothing more, but he didn't need to. Roland lifted the cellular phone clutched in his hand, and Seto's mind instantly snapped to attention; he shot to his feet so fast that Grieco jumped. _"_Leave it on the desk!" Seto snarled as he took great, sweeping strides across the room, and left Alonzo Grieco sitting alone, staring at the door as it slammed shut, blinking confusedly.

"...Little what?"

* * *

**3.**

* * *

"How sweet, Little Master. You remember me."

"Couldn't forget you," Mokuba replied snidely. "I tried."

Adachi Saruwatari wasn't a man easily forgotten. If forced to guess, Mokuba thought that that was part of the reason he had made it into Seto's employ in the first place. Seto had been younger, when he had hired this man, and more confident in his ability to intimidate.

Surely, Seto had thought, having a man of almost seven feet and three hundred pounds of corded steel as a bodyguard would make an impression. He'd thought that by placing Mokuba under the protection of a behemoth like Saruwatari, no one would dare to touch him. And he'd also thought that he had done a good enough job of proving his superiority over the man that he was well under control.

For one of only a handful of times in his life, Seto had been sorely mistaken.

As it turned out, so had Mokuba, who had thought he'd never see the man again. When Pegasus Crawford, Saruwatari's _real _employer, had gone down, thanks in no small part to Yugi Motou, Saruwatari had dropped off the face of the planet.

Until now, apparently.

Saruwatari's laughter boomed through the vehicle, deep and rough and, perhaps most disturbingly, real. "Ah, yes! I forgot what a treat you were, Little Master! You're a quick one, aren't you? So...how have you been?"

"Fine," Mokuba replied shortly, cursing his own stupidity. "How was life in Mexico, gorilla-face?"

Again that ringing, echoing bark of a laugh; it reminded Mokuba rather forcefully of a huge dog. He suddenly thought of a St. Bernard in a suit, driving the limousine, and cracked a smile. A St. Bernard with a unicorn-horn of hair shooting out from its forehead, between its floppy ears.

He snickered.

"Such wit!" Saruwatari cried jovially. "Ah, but you _are _a rare breed, Little Master. How is your...esteemed sibling doing, then? I've not seen him in some time."

"Don't have to ask me," Mokuba said, regaining his composure and wiping the grin from his face with a bit of effort. "You'll see him again, pretty soon. You can ask him yourself."

And there it was. Saruwatari's laugh came again, but it was softer this time, lower, like the rumbling of a minor earthquake. Mokuba heard a dark, malevolent side to his former bodyguard's amusement.

"Oh...I'm sure I _will _see him soon. I'm...quite sure."

And as Saruwatari continued to drive, still chuckling, Mokuba's confidence wavered the slightest bit. It wasn't hard to keep the smile from his face anymore. He looked down at his lap, and swiftly stuffed the game back into his backpack, mechanically, licking his lips as he buckled it closed again and lay his hands limply at his sides.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

He was a rare man.

Not so rare on the surface. There were plenty of cops in Domino City, and plenty of good ones. Plenty of those good cops had moved on from field work to a detective's desk, just like he had, and plenty of those detectives were on Captain Solozarno's good side, just like he was.

He was a relatively young man, thirty-four. A good age, a solid age. He was six feet even, well-muscled and well-trained, fitted to his work. He fit in well with the younger generation of what were sometimes jokingly called Dominions, because he didn't clutch at authority. He didn't wear his badge like a crown, nor did he wave his sidearm like a scepter.

He dressed relatively casually for a police detective, often in simple slacks and a button-down shirt, sometimes a jacket but never a tie, and he wore his hair short and spiked, so that he looked like a college student much more often than he did a law enforcement officer; and while it was certain that some of the older members of the Domino City Police Department disapproved, he liked it, and had done a fine enough job in his years of service that nobody pushed the issue.

These traits may have made him unusual, but none of them made him rare. What made this man rare was that he, and he alone, could confidently call himself a "family friend" of the Kaibas.

And so it was this man, Detective Darren Wilson McKinley, who received a phone call from Roland Ackerman on the afternoon of September ninth (which happened to be three days before his thirty-fifth birthday). And, as luck would have it, the detective had been on his way home.

"McKinley," Darren said automatically as he pulled the cellular phone from one pocket of the jacket lying on the passenger's seat and put it to his ear. He didn't bother to look, to see the caller's identity. He did not recognize the voice on the other end, and his first impulse was to think it was a wrong number.

_"Detective," _said Roland Ackerman, _"I'm calling you because you're the only person he'll trust. We've never met, but my name is Roland Ackerman. I am Master Seto Kaiba's personal assistant. His...right hand, if you want to be romantic about it."_

Darren frowned. "Seto? What's this about, Mister Ackerman? Does he need something?"

_"Oh, yes. Indeed, he does. I've called in our own security, but we need the police department working on this as well. This is why I called. We have to move quickly. We have reason to believe that Young Master Mokuba is missing."_

Darren's silver Chevrolet Impala nearly swerved off the road. _"What? _Do you mean...has he been taken? What do we know?"

_"Sadly little, I'm afraid. But I have learned not to take matters of disrupted routine lightly in my time with this family. Master Kaiba is bound to lose his head, the longer this goes on. We have to be swift to assess the true nature of the situation. Can I count on your help, Detective McKinley?"_

"Yes, yes, of course. Where should I meet you?"

_"Master Kaiba is on his way to Oakwood Elementary School. That is where the little one was last seen. Do you know the way?"_

"My daughter went there. I know it."

_"Good. Thank you, Detective—ah. What? Oh...yes, sir. Of course."_

Darren listened as Roland apparently handed his phone to his employer, and Seto Kaiba's deep, gravelly snarl entered his ears. _"Detective."_

"Seto," Darren said. This was another thing that made Darren McKinley a rare man. He was the only person alive to ever call Seto Kaiba by his given name. Mokuba, the only other person with permission to do so, never did, and probably never would.

_"Don't call in backup for this," _Seto said, and in all honesty, Darren wasn't surprised to hear it. He thought of arguing, thought of insisting, but without much conviction. Under normal circumstances, he would have been tempted to ignore the request—which was really more of a command.

These were...not normal circumstances.

Nothing involving the Kaiba family was _ever _a normal circumstance.

Despite knowing that he would honor this order, Darren said, "Why?"

_"You know why. This game isn't new to me, Darren. Whoever has done this will contact me soon, and I will be ordered not to involve the police."_

"You sound pretty sure of that," Darren offered, quirking an eyebrow, finding himself almost calmed by the tone of Seto's voice. He wasn't lying. The game _wasn't _new. But at the same time, Darren felt worried. It was like walking into a minefield.

_"...It's what I would do," _Seto said, his voice unreadable. Then, after a beat of silence, he added, _"Meet me at the school, Darren. We have to move fast."_

Seto hung up without waiting for a reply.

Darren tossed his phone aside and drew in a deep breath.

He couldn't help but think that his young friend was treating the situation like a training exercise. He hadn't sounded concerned so much as...exasperated. Almost bored. Certainly irritated, but not especially worried.

As he pulled back onto the road, Darren suddenly felt sad.

There was just something horribly _wrong_ about that.

* * *

**5.**

* * *

Darren had it right, of course. Seto would not have befriended an unobservant man.

As Seto stepped into his Veyron, and Roland slipped in silently beside him, he did not feel especially worried. As the road to Mokuba's school began to unroll in front of him, he did not specifically _think _of how he felt, but he knew what he felt, nonetheless:

Insulted.

That was the key to it. This was a trespass. And it had happened often enough before that that was all he saw it as anymore. He stole a glance over at Roland, who was frowning at the laptop computer in his hands. "What is it?" Seto asked sharply.

Just because he felt insulted did not mean that he wasn't on edge.

"I...I don't understand," Roland said. "Perhaps I am simply ignorant, sir, on the current methods for child abduction, but...I thought for certain that the kidnapper would at _least _use another vehicle!"

Seto scowled as he turned his attention back to the road. "What are you talking about? Are you trying to tell me that we're dealing with such an idiot that he actually took Mokuba in our own limousine?"

Roland looked at him, honestly bewildered. "...Yes, sir. Exactly. It's headed toward the freeway, on Wilkins Avenue. Just passed South Cherokee. They have been moving for some time, but it's right here." He pointed.

Seto swerved into a left turn and sped off away from the school, and when Roland looked back up at him, he dared to flash a grin. Seto did not return the gesture, but he was relieved nonetheless. He always tried to anticipate the worst possible scenario, but it seemed that this time, they were dealing with a complete amateur. The idiot hadn't even remembered to take the boy's phone away from him.

Seto fished out his own and punched in a number.

_"McKinley," _came Darren's voice on the second ring. _"Find something, Seto? Already?"_

"Roland's located the limousine. We're headed after it. On the chance that this is a red herring, keep heading for Mokuba's school. See if anyone actually saw this idiot in the act."

_"Will do, Seto. I'm almost there—hey, how did you find out this happened? Did you get a call?"_

"Not a call…a sign. From Mokuba. If you are asking if we know for certain what's happened here…no. But I know enough."

_"Didn't he get out of school something like fifteen, twenty minutes ago? Do we know why he wouldn't call? Even for a couple seconds to make sure you knew? If the suspect actually _is _using your limo to skip town, wouldn't he have taken Mokuba straight from school? He would have known rather quickly that something was wrong."_

Seto frowned. "...I'm not sure. Probably."

Darren's silence seemed to radiate that he was troubled. But he said, _"I'll see what I can find."_

"Good."

On impulse, with a quick—knee-jerk—glance at Roland (who was again scanning the screen in front of him and not paying attention to the conversation), Seto said, "Darren."

_"Yes?"_

"...Thank you."

Darren chuckled. _"This is my job, Seto, and I haven't done anything yet. Let's just make sure the kid gets home safely, huh? Then you can talk about thanking me."_

Seto smirked. "Right."

He terminated the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

As Roland continued to direct him, Seto drove with a sudden sense of confidence. It looked like this one might be resolved quickly. He wondered if he might have this wrapped up and behind him before the sun went down.

His smirk broadened. Mokuba would expect compensation for being kidnapped..._again._

Seto thought he might let the boy pick out dinner.

* * *

**6.**

* * *

_October 29, 2007_

* * *

"Tris and I, we were waitin' at the KC building," Joey said, arms crossed. He wasn't looking at Téa anymore, rather choosing to stare at the glass door of the shop, out into the street. "Y'know that bowling alley out by Duke's place? I thought we'd head out there. Don't think the kid's ever been bowling before, so...y'know."

Tristan drew in a deep breath. "We were getting along pretty good with Mokuba by then. He's a good kid. I wasn't sure about the whole thing at first, but...he warms up on ya, y'know? But I was still a bit...out of it, I guess, waiting around Kaiba's place. I didn't wanna be there."

Téa seemed about to say something, probably, "I don't blame you," but Yugi touched her arm to silence her. She glanced at him, then back at the others, and didn't speak. Tristan seemed somewhat guilty to be admitting this, and it was clear by her face that she didn't think he should be. She looked like she wanted to say something comforting.

But she didn't.

Joey uncrossed his arms, stuffed his hands into his pockets, took them out again, shook his arms with an irritated grunt, and crossed them again. "So anyway, Kaiba said that he needed Mokuba to head out there for something. Dunno what. Some...vice-president...thing. But it wouldn't take long, and then he'd have Copeland, 'at's their driver, take us out. I never been in a limo, 'cept for this one time when I was...six. I was kinda excited, y'know? Antsy. I kep' wonderin' what was takin' Mokuba so long. Twenty minutes feels a lot longer when yer waitin' on somethin'."

Something struck Téa Gardner at that moment. As she listened, she realized that this was the first time she could remember seeing Joey Wheeler looking like this. Not just serious; she had seen him put on a stone face before. Not just somber; she had seen him sad before, frightened before; she had seen a wide range of emotions from the blond before.

But the expression on his face now was something alien.

It wasn't just somber. It wasn't just sad. It wasn't just frightened, or angry.

It was haunted.

For the first time, Téa realized that Joey wasn't seeing her, wasn't seeing the Turtle Game Shop, or Tristan, or Yugi, or anything else about his current location. What he was seeing, right now, was something Téa couldn't fathom...and looking at Joey's face, she realized she was glad that she couldn't.

It scared her.

Joey glanced up, locked her eyes with his own, and it was everything Téa could do not to let out a squeak of terror. The fingers of his right hand dug painfully into his left arm, and his entire body was locked, rigid, on the edge of shaking.

And he said,

"When I got the call from Kaiba, tellin' us to go home 'cuz Mokuba'd been kidnapped again...goin' home was the last thing I wanted to do. I said no, where are you, I'm comin' to help, damn it. And Kaiba said fine. Prob'ly to get off the phone quicker. But I still didn't feel too...y'know, scared for 'im yet. I mean, it's happened tons o' times already, right? Kid's prob'ly used to it by now."

Joey laughed without humor.

"...Not this. _None _of us...could've _ever_ been prepared for this."

And Téa saw something even more shocking than before.

Joey Wheeler was on the verge of tears.

* * *

**END**

* * *

**_Ah, yes. The McKinley man. You all remember him, don't you? Some of you probably do. Surprised to see him? I mentioned that I want to delve deeper into the Kaibas' minds and hearts, and the other characters of the franchise as well. This came to include my own characters. Expect to see more of Detective McKinley in the future. He's become an integral part of my work, and I hope to expand on that here. I do hope that you will indulge me. Again, I thank you all for coming along for the ride this year._**

**_Let's see where else this road leads, shall we?_**


	14. Shot in the Dark III

**_This story is difficult._**

**_It's still my personal favorite, and I'm still quite proud of it, and I'm not having any semblance of a problem with figuring out the plot. The problem is making sure that the overall quality maintains itself. I want to make sure that everything makes sense; I want to make sure that my details are accurate, that they're portrayed the right way, and most importantly that they're entertaining, and emotionally stimulating, to read. This story arc has been particularly difficult, and there's still plenty of work to be done on it before it's done. But the roller-coaster that has been my life for the past few months is finally slowing down, and I hope to put forth plenty of time into this particular work._**

**_That said, this is a big chapter, in terms of what happens. I won't say anything here. I'll let you see what I mean for yourselves._**

**_Welcome to, "Adrenaline Rush."_**

* * *

**1.**

* * *

_September 9, 2006_

* * *

Some distant part of him still hoped it was a misunderstanding.

While all the signs thus far _could _point to abduction, they could just as easily point to an innocent series of happenstances. Perhaps Mokuba had forgotten to charge his phone the night before, and it had died in his pocket. Perhaps he'd asked Copeland to drive him somewhere before heading out to headquarters. Perhaps Copeland had forgotten to mention this to Seto. It _could _be the case.

Yes...it could be.

As Roland sifted through the possibilities, making phone calls and checking and rechecking his computer, Seto wondered. Could it be? Could he truly allow himself to believe that it could be _that_ simple? That innocent? The more he thought about it...the less likely he found it. No. Things didn't go that simply for him _or _Mokuba. No, this wasn't an innocent misunderstanding.

It couldn't be.

Seto sighed deeply and glanced over at Roland, who cursed under his breath. Seto said, "So? What do we know?" He hadn't been paying attention to what his assistant had been saying. Roland raised an eyebrow, and sighed heavily.

"I tried to call Travis," Roland said, "but it wasn't Travis who answered. A...Doctor Sean Langer. Travis was knocked unconscious near the estate. He woke up at the hospital. Someone found him, called him in. He told me that he remembered it being around one-fifteen when he was attacked. He'd just checked his watch."

Seto cursed as well.

"Sir...this means the kidnapper picked him up. Why would Young Master Mokuba get into the limousine with a stranger? He knows better than that. He isn't naïve enough to think you'd hire a new driver without telling him."

Seto didn't know. He turned his attention back to the road. "Did Copeland say anything else?"

Roland frowned seriously. "He said that if you will have it, he has offered his resignation."

"What?"

Seto was honestly surprised. The thought hadn't even crossed his mind...yet. On considering it, he supposed that it may have come to him _eventually_, and he would have considered it seriously. Nevertheless, he asked, "Why would he do that?"

"I told him that we have reason to believe that the little one has been abducted. Travis said that he let his guard down, he has failed in his duty to you and to Young Master Mokuba, and that if you wish it, he will step down from his position."

Seto actually chuckled.

The decision was made. "Mokuba would never forgive me if I let him go for something like this," he said. "He likes Copeland. And Copeland is a victim in this, too, apparently. He didn't see his attacker?"

"No," Roland said.

"Damn. Not as much of an amateur as I thought."

"Unfortunately."

"Which means he's leading us on."

"Most likely."

Seto's hands tightened around the steering wheel. Roland watched his employer, and thought he understood something deeper than irritation at being manipulated. While it was clear that Seto was on edge, that he was frustrated, angry, and slowly becoming more worried, the most glaringly obvious thing to Roland right now was something that _should_ have been out of place:

Relief.

Seto was, first and foremost, relieved that his instincts had been right. And also relieved because this was a playing field on which he was intimately familiar. He, much like Mokuba, had come to see kidnapping as something of a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek. And in this game, Seto could shed everything. He was slowly getting rid of everything; there would soon be no worry, no frustration, no anger. Now that he was certain, he would work his mind and body to a razor's edge, and there would be nothing but one indisputable, irrefutable truth:

Mokuba needed him.

And Seto Kaiba was never so capable, never so confident, never so _alive_ as when his baby brother needed him.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

Mokuba wasn't able to keep track of how long he sat in the back of his brother's limousine, in silence, as Saruwatari drove. He knew that there was a tracking device in the vehicle, and hoped that Saruwatari was not tech-savvy enough to have deactivated it. He knew there was another tracking device in his phone, and that it worked even when it wasn't turned on. He hoped that Roland—and thus Seto—knew where he was.

He didn't want to admit it to himself but, sitting still, alone, in such stifling silence, he felt fear begin its slow, trickling trek down his back. Unable to move, unable to act, it didn't feel like a game. Licking his lips nervously, he closed his eyes and summoned his brother's face in his memory. He told himself, make your face like that. Show nothing. Let nothing through. Be strong. Be brave. Be untouchable.

He breathed deeply.

"Nervous, Little Master?" Saruwatari asked, his voice so sudden that Mokuba jumped. The boy glared hotly in the direction of his former bodyguard, face contorted half in anger and half in shame. Yes...yes, he was. He didn't want to be, but he was.

_Niisama wouldn't be nervous, _he admonished himself. _Niisama would be laughing in that ape's face right now. He...he'd show him up good. Yeah._

Seto was looking for him. Seto knew he was in trouble, and he was looking for him right now. Seto had outdone Saruwatari once. He'd do it again. Seto was way better at this game. Seto was a master. Seto _lived _for this. No way Saruwatari could win. Uh-uh.

The slightest of smiles rose on Mokuba's face.

Niisama would win.

He touched the locket resting beneath his shirt.

When Saruwatari stopped the vehicle, Mokuba snapped to attention. He felt his stomach tighten as the limousine slowly, casually, drifted to a stop, and his eyes widened slightly as he heard Saruwatari open the driver's door.

"Some business to take care of, Little Master," Saruwatari said amicably. "Behave yourself, now."

Mokuba had no idea what constituted his abductor's "business," but he didn't much care. Taking the opportunity for what it was, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned it on. He punched in Roland's number.

The answer came almost immediately, and as it did, Mokuba heard the huge man outside, almost directly behind him, and hissed a quick, almost inaudible, "Shhh!" before setting the phone aside. There came no voice at the other end.

"What's the hold-up?" Mokuba called out. "Take that long just to go to the bathroom? Don't know how to find it? Or maybe you just can't aim right, since...you know, you don't have opposable _thumbs."_

Saruwatari's laughter shot out like gunfire, and Mokuba flinched. This wasn't good. It wasn't working. He wasn't getting angry. Mokuba stole a nervous glance at his phone, relieved only the slightest bit that the call hadn't been dropped. Roland, or Seto, was still listening. But he still didn't care for that laugh. Not the slightest bit.

"Laughing 'cuz it's true?" Mokuba called out, straining to keep the tremor from his voice. "It's okay to admit it. We're all friends here, right? Hey, so where _are _we, anyway? You taking me to an amusement park? I like Six Flags."

"No, no...not an amusement park, sadly," came Saruwatari's reply, and he sounded legitimately sorry to admit it. "Sorry to disappoint. Just going on a bit of a ride. See the countryside."

"Are we going camping?" Mokuba asked. "I don't have a sleeping bag. We should have stopped by a store to pick up some marshmallows. Maybe some bananas for you? Monkeys like bananas, right?"

Again, that horrendous, mocking, infuriating laugh.

"Ah, but you _are _a treat! No, no...no camping. Although...there may just be a fire. Yes. A nice, big campfire. It's bound to be _very _pretty."

Without warning, Saruwatari threw open the door. He carried a gasoline can in one mammoth fist. Grinning, he reached out with the other and clutched Mokuba's phone before the boy could snatch it away, holding it close to his face as he chuckled.

"...That will be quite enough of that, Little Master," he said. Then, he added, "A shame I didn't get to see you, Master Kaiba. It's been _so _long."

He terminated the call, turned off the device, dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath one gargantuan foot. Saruwatari's face, eyes obscured by his ever-present sunglasses, looked like grinning death. He reached out, lightning-quick, and gripped Mokuba by the hair. Trying to hold back a cry of pain, the boy was dragged out of the limousine.

Dropping the gasoline at his feet, Saruwatari tossed Mokuba over his shoulder with a grip like corded steel, and strolled toward a second car, a nondescript forest green sedan with the trunk popped open. Saruwatari unceremoniously tossed Mokuba into it, and the black-haired boy yelped as something sharp dug into his back. Before he could even think to escape, the lid slammed shut and all was in darkness.

Mokuba tried immediately to open it, but of course it didn't work. It was stifling in here. He could barely move. He didn't like it here. He didn't like closed-in spaces. He didn't like that he couldn't see. The darkness felt like a blanket. It reminded him of...of...

No. No time for panic.

Can't panic.

Panic gets you killed.

Saruwatari laughed again, the sound muffled now, as he walked away.

Mokuba closed his eyes (it didn't make any real difference, but it felt better), and took his locket from beneath his shirt. He held it tightly like a good-luck charm, and told himself to calm down. This is nothing new. Oh, sure, he'd never been thrown into the trunk of a car, before, but wasn't it bound to happen _eventually? _And sure, he'd never expected to run into _this _particular suit-wearing slab of beef again, but was it really much of a surprise?

He was beginning to slow his breathing. Beginning to convince himself that nothing was going to go wrong, that he would get out and that Niisama would find him even if he didn't, that this would make a great story to tell Joey and Tristan and Yugi when he finally got o—

Even confined in the trunk of a car, Mokuba knew what an explosion sounded like.

His blood went cold.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

Roland answered the call quickly, knowing instinctively to switch to speakerphone before Seto even thought to tell him. The first thing they heard was an insistent, fearful, _"Shhh!"_

Seto's breath quickened almost imperceptibly. Roland, used to his employer's subtle moods, caught it, but didn't say anything. He stared intently at the screen in front of him. The limousine had stopped, he informed his companion. Mokuba must have been left alone for a moment.

_"What's the hold-up?" _Mokuba called out, presumably to the one responsible for the mess they were all in. _"Take that long just to go to the bathroom? Don't know how to find it? Or maybe you just can't aim right, since...you know, you don't have opposable _thumbs."

Roland snickered despite himself. With a sheepish glance at Seto, the grin fighting its way onto his face vanished. He grimaced, started to clear his throat, then stopped. Seto gripped the steering wheel of his Veyron as if he thought to vicariously strangle the life out of his brother's latest antagonist. That it wasn't working didn't seem to matter, from the expression on Seto's face.

The responding laugh was familiar, and Seto wasn't sure if that made things better or worse. But now he thought he knew that the motive this time was likely to be vengeance, rather than avarice, and that was not good news. The foot on the gas pedal lowered. "...Damn it. Damn it damn it, _damn it."_

Seto knew what Mokuba was doing. He was trying to goad Adachi Saruwatari (and of course, why _not? _He'd done it before) into giving up information, angering him so that he might slip up. It was a tactic he'd learned—like every tactic he'd ever learned—from Seto, and he was fast becoming a master at it. But Seto heard the same warning signal that Mokuba had: there was no mounting anger in the man's voice; it wasn't working. Seto let out a slow, seething breath through his nose. Roland made no visible reaction.

_"...so where _are _we, anyway?" _Mokuba asked. Roland still made no reaction, but Seto heard it. He heard it clear as day: the tremble, the faintest sliver of nervousness, beneath the façade of confident nonchalance. _"You taking me to an amusement park? I like Six Flags."_

Seto forced himself to stop at a red light, drew in another breath, and shut his eyes. Words could not come close to describing the swell of pride that suddenly constricted his chest. It hurt, and when he opened his eyes again, they were beginning to burn. He sped through the intersection as soon as the light turned, faster than he'd intended.

_Hold on, Mokuba, _he thought, feeling true urgency for the first time. He licked his lips, continuing to pick up speed, stretched out his fingers on the wheel and tightened his grip again. _Just hang on. Be strong for me, baby brother. Just for a while longer. I'm on my way._

He wasn't whimsical enough to think Mokuba would hear him, but he did hope that the boy knew it, nonetheless. He had to know. Why would he have called otherwise? He knew that Seto and Roland were listening to this...he had to.

He knew.

Didn't he?

_"A shame I didn't get to see you, Master Kaiba. It's been so long."_

Seto growled incoherently and the gas pedal hit the floor. Roland stared at him.

Not long after the call from Mokuba had been dropped, a second came to Seto's phone. He ripped it out of his suit jacket and snapped it open and nearly screamed, "What?" at it, as if the device itself were responsible for anything.

_"Nobody saw anything out of the ordinary," _came Darren's voice, unperturbed by his friend's fury, _"at least according to them. Kids just saw Mokuba walk out, he waved at them, he got into the limo. I asked what the driver looked like, though, and _that's_ not right. They said he had weird hair. Spiked up in front. I asked if it was like mine, but they said no. Said it looked like..."_

"Antenna, shark's fin, needle, horn..." Seto muttered under his breath.

_"...A…horn. They said he had a badge on his suit, though, just like Copeland, so nothing looked wrong. He must have taken it from—"_

"No...no, he didn't take anything. It's his. The man who took Mokuba used to work for me," Seto said. "I...just got a call. I know him. His name is Adachi Saruwatari. I hired him as a bodyguard when I first took over Kaiba-Corp."

_"Do you know where he's taking Mokuba?"_

Seto glanced at Roland.

"I know where he's taken him," Roland said, "and I know one more thing."

He locked eyes with Seto, looking grave.

"We're in trouble."

* * *

**4.**

* * *

"Slow down, man! Jesus, you wanna get us killed before we get to do anything?"

Joey didn't answer immediately, straining to keep his face neutral as the sights of Domino City blurred past him. His car wasn't exactly Indy 500 material, but he seemed bound and determined to try to prove otherwise. Tristan drew in a deep breath, hands clasped in his lap as if praying.

"Think he's okay?"

Joey sneered. "Dunno. Hope so. I think he'll do a'right for himself for now. He's tough. He'll pull through. So we gotta do our part now and find 'im."

Tristan still wasn't quite as gung-ho on the subject of Mokuba Kaiba as his friends were; he'd never had a truly positive experience with children. His infant—now toddler—nephew was the only exposure he had ever had, and it was true even if he didn't say it out loud that he rather hated the little snot. But he had to admit that Mokuba was an entirely different breed, and so he was fully willing to help. But the main reason he was in on this was because of the blond man driving the deathtrap.

Joey had shown him, in no uncertain terms, that he'd been unfair. And for all his faults, Tristan was honest with himself. He knew Joey was right. Mokuba was _not_ his brother, and didn't deserve to be painted with the same brush. And while he wasn't sure that he wasn't _still _painting with that brush, Tristan was determined to atone.

He remembered the first time he had met the boy: on Duelist Kingdom, Pegasus Crawford's private island, with a handkerchief tied around the bottom half of his face and a purple beanie covering the top half, trying to beat Yugi in a game of _Magic & Wizards _to protect his brother's corporation. Mokuba hadn't had a chance from the beginning...but he guessed that you had to give the kid credit for trying. For doing something. Even at...what was it, seven years old? Eight? He'd managed to sneak out of Crawford's castle, steal himself a dueling deck and star chips, and find Yugi before finally being found out.

Yeah...tough kid, all right.

Tough as nails, wasn't that the saying? Yeah. That sounded right.

Tristan himself had tried to help Mokuba at that same tournament. Kid was soulless at the time. And Tristan had nearly run the poor little guy off a cliff, hadn't he? He frowned as he thought about that time...yes. He _had _tried to help Mokuba Kaiba, hadn't he? Gone down to the kid's cell, broke him out, and tried to find someplace safe for him to stay while Yugi (and Yami; can't forget him) dealt with Crawford. He'd done it of his own volition, without anyone asking, he damn near died doing it and nobody even thought to...no...nobody even...knew that he'd done it.

Sudden realization smacked him upside the head.

Was _this _where his anger came from? Was _this _why he was uncomfortable around the Kaiba brothers? Oh, c'mon...that couldn't—no _way_. Was he really _that _much of a goddamn _tool?_

"They don't know what happened..." Tristan whispered. "Why the hell would they thank me for somethin' they don't even _know_ about?"

"What's that?" Joey asked, distracted and likely not all that interested.

"Uh...n-nothin'. Just...thinking. Kaiba tell you where they were going?"

Something new in Tristan's voice made Joey turn to look at him. Tristan looked back, and Joey frowned, looking somewhat confused. "...Nah. Didn't say specifically. Jus' said...north. _Shit,_ I'm stupid." The blond shook his head, rummaged through his jacket for his phone, and sifted through his call history for Kaiba's number. He called it.

"Oi," Joey said quickly, "where are you? Where you headed? Know where he is no—oh. Wha? What's that...oh, _shit_. W-where's the last place you—okay. Got it. Yeah, yeah, I'll be there, you bet. Sure. Right. Right, okay."

Joey dropped his phone beside him. "They, uh...lost track of 'im," he said. "GPS system. Kid's phone and the limo they were tracking, both of 'em just went...poof. Gone. But, uh...Kaiba says he knows who's behind this one."

"Who?" Tristan asked, and there was genuine worry in his voice for the first time.

"Pegasus's head suit-monkey," Joey said solemnly. "Saruwatari."

Tristan went pale. "Oh, _shit."_

"Yeah."

* * *

**5.**

* * *

Darren McKinley caught up with Seto and Roland on the outskirts of an abandoned lot with no time to say anything to them. As he'd finally reached them, his attention had been riveted on the scene directly in front of him. He'd seen the smoke from some distance away, but had hoped against hope that it didn't signify what he thought it did.

He sped through the lot alongside Seto's signature blue Veyron, skidded to a stop, and launched himself out of his own car and stumbled forward. He was too numb to even think to contact the fire department.

"Oh, _no..."_ he breathed.

His legs threatened to give way, and he rushed ahead, stopping just behind Seto as the young CEO stepped away from his car. Seto moved slowly, woodenly, cobalt eyes wide and unseeing, like opaque mirrors projecting out from them a vision of hell itself. His face was slack, his breathing short and shallow. Darren dared to touch the man's shoulder, expecting a flinch of surprise (or perhaps _hoping_ for one), but Seto didn't move. He hadn't felt it.

The limousine that Travis Copeland had driven for years, that Mokuba had ridden in on the trips to and from school ever since he had joined the public system, was a hunk of bent, twisted metal, home to a smoldering blaze of fire that seemed to dare them onward, like the eye of some ancient devil. Darren had seen explosions, had seen fires, had seen ruined vehicles like this; he had seen them many times. It didn't help. Now he knew why Seto and Roland had been unable to track Mokuba.

There wasn't anything here worth tracking.

Reality seemed to creep up on him, cold pragmatism snapping his mind back into proper functioning, and he remembered that this was just another part of the job. He had been trained for this. He had conditioned himself for this. This...was nothing new. He told himself this, it told _itself_ to him many times, and he thought perhaps that he hated himself when he found that he was beginning to believe it. He drew in a shuddering sigh, and removed his hand from his friend's shoulder.

The only thing keeping him from panicking was the fact that he _didn't _smell burning flesh.

"Seto..."

"So...this is why," Seto managed to say, seemed to be forcing himself to say. "I see, now. Well, let's regroup, then. Roland. Darren. Stop standing there like mourners at a funeral that hasn't even happened."

"Seto, are you _sure—"_

_"No, I'm not!" _Seto suddenly roared, and Darren realized that he wasn't nearly as calm as he was striving to be. "But if he _is _in there, then there isn't much _fucking _point to anything, now _is_ there? So I'm _damned _well going to assume that I'm _supposed _to think he is and that he _isn't, _until I have some _goddamned _proof!"

Seto suddenly looked older than his years. The raw, unfiltered pain etched into his face as he twisted it into a façade of neutrality made Darren's own face ache. He thought that if justice was at all real, Gozaburo Kaiba was sunk so deeply into hell that even Satan couldn't find him. No parent worth living would have ever created such a reprehensible legacy.

When his phone rang, Seto gave a sudden, sneering grin that looked like it belonged on a predator about to maul its prey. His claw of a hand snatched the device out of his coat and he laughed—it sounded like a cry of pain—as he flipped it open.

"So nice of you to call," he said with a snarl.

* * *

**6.**

* * *

Mokuba opened his eyes and wondered when he had fallen asleep. He thought for one wondrous moment that maybe he'd simply had a nightmare, and the terror still resting deep in his chest could be solved by nothing more than asking Seto to make him a special breakfast to cheer him up.

But when he opened his eyes, he realized quickly enough that things weren't going to be that easy. The room he was in was most certainly _not _his own. The walls were bare of any decoration; there was no desk, no shelves, no chairs, no familiar poster on the back of the door. He sat up, saw that he was covered only by a simple white sheet that smelled stale, and groaned as pain erupted in his head.

It didn't cloud his thinking enough that he didn't realize what must have happened: Saruwatari had to have knocked him out. On realizing that, he noted with some detached surprise that he felt not fear, not worry, but anger. He had no idea where he was, he was cold, he had a headache, his brother probably thought he was dead or dying, and all Mokuba felt was pissed.

"Son of a bitch," he cursed under his breath, and felt that child's electric, clandestine glee at doing something he knew wasn't allowed. He almost grinned.

Instead of grinning, though, he swung his legs out from under the sheet, tossed it aside, and dropped his feet onto the thin carpet. He started as he realized that he could _feel_ that carpet, and not his shoes. It was only then that he realized he wasn't dressed in the jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers that he'd been wearing when Saruwatari had taken him; he was dressed in white pajamas that didn't fit.

Someone had changed his clothes while he'd been out.

Now he felt angry and violated.

_That's just wrong, _he thought.

In a sudden flare of panic, Mokuba snatched his hand up around his neck. He felt the cord of his locket, right where it always was, and realized that he'd felt it all along. He let out a slow breath, relieved at least that his brother was still with him.

Niisama was still there.

The boy scanned his surroundings. He found absolutely nothing of note; no window through which he could escape, no manner of communicating with anyone, but most disappointingly, nothing he could use as a weapon. He stood up, decided there was no harm in checking, and glanced under the bed.

There, in the back, past his reach from his current position but still available to him, was an old framing hammer. It seemed a gift, at first, but enough of his brother's cynicism had leaked into Mokuba that he thought of it more like mockery. Still, he crawled beneath the bed and picked it up. It was solid, heavy, and felt good in his hand. Heartened at least by the fact that he was armed, Mokuba pushed himself back out and stood up again. Yeah, a hammer wasn't going to do him much good against a monster like Saruwatari, but maybe if he was lucky he could bash his kneecaps or smash a foot.

A wide grin finally spread on his face as he thought of it.

He took one final, cursory glance about the room before heading to the single door and exiting into a long hallway. Well, wherever he was, it was big. It reminded him somewhat of his home, but all the same it felt...empty. It felt abandoned. Even Seto, as disdainful of frivolous decoration as he was, allowed _some _life to be breathed into his mansion; if only to make it different from when it had been Gozaburo's. There were potted plants, and artwork hung on the walls, and the occasional coat rack, and the rugs that adorned the hallways were artful, if somewhat simple.

This place had none of that, and it brought to mind the cold, sterile walkway of a prison.

Mokuba looked to his left, then his right, and found no indicator of what direction he should go. So, he took a chance, and turned right. He looked around him, keeping his eyes moving, but pretty soon everything just blended together. There was nothing of note. Just like the room he'd been kept in, the walls of this place (he didn't think of it as a home, or even a house) were desolate. Stripped.

The hallway eventually led into a parlor, and here he saw, at least, that sunlight had been allowed into the space by virtue of several windows. The room was simply furnished, with only a couch and two chairs situated around a single table. A bouquet of light purple flowers in a glass vase sat at the center of that table. Mokuba didn't know what the flowers were called, but he didn't much care. He didn't like them.

He saw the front door, but knew even as he headed toward it that he would never make it out. And so, when he heard a voice from behind him to his left, he wasn't the least bit surprised. "Leaving? Oh, now, that's hardly polite, Little Kaiba. We haven't had any time to...chat."

Mokuba turned slowly, and saw that settled into one corner of the parlor was a little nook, where sat a second table and a second pair of chairs. Unlike the sturdy, bulky set in the center of the room, this furniture was thin, wispy, more sculpture than function; Seto would have hated it. Mokuba didn't much care for it, either.

And as Mokuba finally set eyes on the man responsible for his current...situation, he did not see Adachi Saruwatari. And indeed, it hadn't been his old bodyguard's voice that had called out to him. It had been familiar, that voice, but only distantly, and even as he saw the man's face, it wasn't immediately recognizable. Still, Mokuba tightened his grip on the hammer.

"Ah, now, I thought I had that room cleaned," the man murmured, the barest hint of an accent revealing that English likely hadn't been his first language, as he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair. "Wherever did you pick _that _up, little one? Toss it aside. What do you think you'll be doing? Construction? Nonsense; you're a guest."

But Mokuba didn't believe that. His eyes finally fell on the pistol in the man's right hand.

Dropping the hammer hadn't been a friendly suggestion; it was a command.

Mokuba threw it to his side, face going suddenly blank. The man smiled, but it didn't lift the boy's spirits. On the contrary, it scared the hell out of him, and perhaps the most frightening part about that smile was that it _didn't_ look angry, or crazy. Indeed, the man's face was bright, open, and his smile danced merrily in his eyes. This man looked genuinely happy to see him.

But he never let his weapon's barrel leave its target.

"Come," the man said jovially, "sit. Come, come here, Little Kaiba, sit with me. It's been quite a long while, hasn't it? Let's...catch up, shall we?"

He nudged the other chair sitting on the opposite side of the small table with one foot.

Another command. Mokuba breathed deeply, and stepped forward. He walked slowly, carefully, and sat down. He folded his hands in his lap and looked at his captor. He leveled his gaze on this happy, friendly, crazy man and didn't say a word. He refused to look at his feet like some sniveling coward. No. He would do what his brother always did; he'd look the threat straight in the face.

The man chuckled. "It _is _nice to see you again, Little Kaiba. I do hope you may forgive my...associate. I hear he ruined your brother's limousine." He clicked his tongue in admonition. "So crass. So crass. But...now you're here. And that's what matters." He looked at Mokuba's blank face and frowned. "Surely, Little Kaiba, you would recognize me?"

And with a sudden jolt, he did.

Mokuba's calm façade broke the slightest bit, and his mouth dropped open in surprise.

"...Siegfried von Schroeder."

* * *

**END.**


	15. Shot in the Dark IV

_**To say that I have been having personal issues lately would be a grave understatement. There are, of course, the usual pitfalls that come with creative writing in general; that is to say, in the time since my last update, I have been dealing with a rather severe writer's/editor's block, which was only exacerbated in the past couple months by...certain realizations. It's never a good thing to realize that you feel like your life is going nowhere, and it's made all the more infuriatingly confusing when it isn't necessarily true. I won't get on a sermon, here; I've talked about these problems too often with friends and family. Suffice it to say that I forgot myself for a while, and it's taken me a ridiculously long time to truly remember why I started posting these stories online in the first place.**_

_**Practice? Yes. Catharsis? Yes. But there's a much more fundamental reason that wasn't coming through for a while, and it's this: because I love this language, I love these characters, and most importantly I love this story, and sharing it with you.**_

_**I'm sorry. I was lost for a while, but I'm back now. And I won't let myself get lost again (knock on wood).**_

_**This arc has been difficult from the offset, and it's still difficult. There are any number of details in the later sections that I still need to go over. But this chapter is kosher, I assure you.**_

_**Let's see what happens, shall we?**_

_**This is, "Impending Demise."**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

Siegfried tossed his head back and laughed; deep and sincere. Mokuba might have been fooled by that laugh into thinking this _was _just a casual meet between old acquaintances, except for that the man's right fist held a deadly weapon trained on him. The chair he sat on was uncomfortable, but he paid little attention to that. He strained to keep his eyes on the enemy's face, and ignore the gun. Ignore the gun, ignore the gun...but he couldn't. The more he tried, the more his head kept turning, ever so slightly, as if magnetized.

"I see you've a fine memory," Siegfried said, recovering, still with that creepily sane grin on his face. "Just like your brother, hm? Seto _does _have a shockingly accurate memory, doesn't he? Some say that that is why he has done so well for himself. Do you think that's true, Little Kaiba?"

"...It's part of it," Mokuba managed, figuring that refusing to talk would probably get him into trouble. Anyone who could smile that openly with a pistol in his hand was most certainly not to be trusted to behave like a logical human being. As if bidden by thinking of it, Mokuba yet again caught his vision drifting.

"Yes, yes, part of it," Siegfried said distantly, nodding as if speaking to himself. "I'm sure you are quite right. That isn't _all _of the reason he has amassed such success, is it? No, no, I think your esteemed brother was quite born to this...urban arena, shall we call it. Don't you think? He seems quite at home at the top of the food chain, doesn't he?"

There was a glass of red wine sitting on the table by Siegfried's free left hand. He lifted it, as if toasting his "guest," and took a sip. "You will forgive me if I do not share with you, Little Kaiba," he said, chuckling. "I am not sure if Seto would much appreciate my allowing you to partake of alcohol. Quite protective of you. I should surely not like to countermand his parenting."

_I don't think he'd much appreciate you kidnapping me and holding me at gunpoint, either, you freak, _Mokuba thought savagely, but remained silent. He dared not say anything. It wouldn't do him any good to taunt this one. He was clearly insane.

God...what was he going to do? Mokuba had dealt with this kind of situation several times, and sure...every time it had been with a complete nut-case. But something about Siegfried's serenely pleasant face unnerved him. This wasn't normal crazy. This wasn't a crazy Mokuba was in any way comfortable with. He'd never much liked the man who had taken it upon himself to be Seto's eternal rival; even as a child, Siegfried von Schroeder had been creepy. The pink hair was nothing compared to the way he acted, the way he talked. Mokuba thought now that he finally understood what frightened him about this man.

He was a psychopath.

Any proof Mokuba needed of that was staring him in the face right now, grinning amiably as he drank wine with one hand and kept Mokuba pinned to his chair with the other, with a gun that reminded the boy none too comfortably of the one Seto kept at his right hip.

Setting his glass down, Siegfried's grin widened as he slipped his hand into his lavender jacket and removed from it a compact cellular phone. "An associate picked this up for me," he said, shrugging. "Say...I know it would be quite rude, with you sitting right here, but you wouldn't mind if I gave an old friend a call, would you? It's been _so long _since we've talked. I should very much like to know how he's doing."

Mokuba drew in a shuddering breath, hating himself for the weakness he heard in it. He forced himself to take in several more; deep, calming breaths, as he tried to remember how Seto would handle this. Seto wouldn't back down. Seto wouldn't show fear.

_Niisama would clock this guy good, _Mokuba thought. _He'd have this bastard on his knees begging for mercy before he even had the gun ready._

The thought helped calm him. Not much...but it helped.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"How nice of you to call."

_"Ah, now, is that any sort of tone to take with an old friend?"_

Seto's face twitched. "I wouldn't know," he said sharply. "I don't _have _any old friends."

The man on the other end of the line chuckled. _"Well, now, my dear boy, that all depends on what your definition of 'old friend' happens to be. But we'll quarrel over semantics later. I should say you have a more pressing matter on your mind right now, don't you?"_

Seto jabbed a finger to Roland, then pointed to his Veyron. Without speaking, Roland nodded and set to his task. "I should say so," Seto said. "You're a sharp one, aren't you? Since you're so intellectually inclined, perhaps you can tell me just who is going to pay to replace my limousine."

_"Oh, I _am _sorry," _said the irritatingly familiar voice. _"I did not intend for Adachi to do something so lavishly theatrical to your vehicle."_

"I'll just bet you didn't."

Darren stared at him, clearly unsure as to how he should act right now. Seto sighed deeply in irritation. Now, he understood. Now, he knew. The English was flawless, the hallmark of a genius mind, considering the rumors on just how quickly he had learned it...but there was only one man he knew with even this barest hint of a German accent. And of course...it would have to be him.

_"But it _was _quite surprising, wasn't it? You have to admit, the man does know how to draw attention to himself. So, I'm betting you're rather nervous right now, aren't you? I'm sure you have figured out by now that it was I, and not Adachi, that is responsible for this...situation. So, you must be asking yourself, just what did I want Adachi to do? What is my aim?"_

Seto drew in a deep breath. It really was disgusting. This was a voice so inherently arrogant as to make Pegasus Crawford sound as humble as a Buddhist monk. "Well, that's not a very important question, von Schroeder," he said, "because I'm quite sure you'll tell me, in painfully explicit detail, eventually."

_"Ah! I _knew _you would remember! Well done, Seto. Well done! Well, that's one mystery solved, isn't it? So, have you figured anything _else _out, then? How has that wondrous mind of yours serviced you this time, my friend?"_

Seto began to walk slowly back to his vehicle as Roland popped back out of it, looking stern and nervous. Darren, glancing back at the ruined limousine, sighed and shook his head as he headed back to his own car. "There are two possible motives at work, here," Seto said. "I am not sure which applies to you. Either monetary, in which case you are holding Mokuba in order to use him to bargain with me. Unlikely, as you _define _the concept of 'obscenely rich.' Or vengeance, in which case you are holding Mokuba in order to make me squirm. Either way, he was not present when Saruwatari decided to ruin my limousine. That's far too efficient. _Your _mind doesn't work that way."

_"...Ah, well, I did want you to wonder for at least a little longer. Heighten the suspense, you know. But I must admit, you are right. Little Mokuba was _not _killed in that most charming explosion. No, he is right here, in fact. He does not seem very pleased to see me, however. Do you know why? I have heard from so many sources how friendly he is."_

"It's quite a mystery..." Seto said, clenching his teeth. "Tell him I'm proud of him. He knows a raving idiot when he sees one."

_"Oh, I do think he knows quite well how proud you are of him. Don't you, Little Kaiba? I daresay you _live_ on that pride. Without it, I wonder how long it would be before you starved. Withered. Without that pride...would you die alone? Purposeless? Would you falter, like a machine without a user to man the controls?"_

Seto's face tightened, along with his grip on his phone. "So…vengeance, then."

_"You _do _think you know everything, don't you, Seto?"_

"I know enough."

_"Well, that is a rather subjective idea. But, allow me to give you a bit more information, just to help things along. You can find me, and your darling brother, at 1342 Yellowtail Terrace. You know where it is? Be quick, won't you? I do so want to see you again, my old friend. We have much to discuss, you and I."_

"We can discuss your execution date," Seto snapped. "If you think I'm going to take it easy on you this time, you're sadly mistaken. I swear to you, if I find the barest bruise on him, if I find a _splinter _in his finger, I'll—"

_"You will kill me. Yes. I am quite aware. And no, I do not mock you. I know full well that you harbor the capacity and the willpower to kill me. In fact, I can guarantee that you will. Because—well, let's not discuss all the surprises over the phone. So impersonal. Meet me here, and we'll resume. Shall we?"_

"I'd forgotten how much I hate you, von Schroeder."

_"Well, I'm pleased to know I helped you remember. Goodbye...old friend."_

Without waiting for a response, Siegfried terminated the call.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

Seto watched with an unreadable expression on his face as Joey Wheeler and Tristan Taylor scrambled out of the blond's car and rushed up to him. Part of him was heartened by how worried Joey looked, but most of him was annoyed to have to deal with more people.

"Hey!" Joey called, skidding to a stop. "Kaiba! There you guys are! I thought—oh, _shit..."_

"Clean-up, and nothing else," Seto snarled. "He's been taken elsewhere."

Tristan came trotting up beside the blond, breathing heavily, eyes as wide as an owl's. "So this...this is...just...to throw you...off track?"

Seto noted with some degree of satisfaction that he said, "throw _you _off track," and not "us." He wasn't entirely certain _why _he was pleased, only that he was. He pushed that idea into the back of his mind and slipped back into his car. "Follow if you think you must," he snapped at them, leaning out the window, "but be quick about it."

He sped off, and the two teens watched him go as they alternated their gaze between the striking blue vehicle to their right and the blazing orange bonfire to their left. It struck Joey and Tristan both, at about the same time, that not so long ago, Seto Kaiba taking that tone with them would have resulted in a brawl.

Now, it just frightened them.

They heard the underlying tone, beneath the icy nothingness he had been trying to pull over himself. That combination of smoldering fury and white-cold fear. He knew something that they did not, and it had him shaken. Joey thought, as he climbed back into his car and took off with a nail-on-chalkboard squeal of tires—careful to keep Detective McKinley's Impala in sight as it followed Seto's Veyron—that there was something inherently, deeply _wrong_ with the idea that Seto was scared.

Seto Kaiba didn't _do _scared.

The worst part about it was that it was contagious. There it was, cold and clammy, clenching his insides and shaking his confidence; _he _was scared. If Seto _freaking _Kaiba was frightened this time, then good goddamn, there was good reason to be frightened.

Joey thought distantly of sharing this revelation with Tristan, but when he glanced over to his side to look at the brunette, he saw he didn't have to; Tristan looked even more shaken than he felt. It was almost comical; they both had spent so much time despising the man, hating him and everything he stood for, with the sort of fervent, obstinate hatred of which only teenagers are capable, but even as they hated him, they had come to rely on him.

_So long's Kaiba has it under control, _Joey thought, _everything's good._

Conversely...

If Kaiba _didn't _have it under control...everything was wrong.

Dead wrong.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Mokuba watched carefully, taking in every possible detail, as Siegfried's manservant—whose name was Ivan—brought out his master's dinner. The man was tall, clean-shaven, and looked bored out of his mind. He cast a flicker of a glance at the boy as he set the tray down on the table, and that glance seemed to apologize.

Mokuba wasn't in much of a mood to see it.

_"Danke schön," _Siegfried said offhandedly, and Ivan bowed as he removed the cover from the tray, revealing two bowls of steaming soup. Mokuba crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, even going so far as to let out a slight "hmph" when the pink-haired gunman gestured with his free hand for his "guest" to eat.

_"Nein, danke," _the young Kaiba sneered.

Siegfried laughed. "Such a treat, Little Kaiba! I do enjoy your company. Such wit! Ah, well, if you are certain. I should think you would be hungry, though. You haven't eaten in some time, have you not? You have lunch at...noon, yes?"

Instead of lying, Mokuba shrugged. "Niisama's cooking is better."

This caused another bout of laughter. "But you don't even _know! _Has dearest Seto not taught you not to say you don't like something until you try it? I'm sure he has. You _should_ try it, Little Kaiba. Ivan is quite good at his work, I assure you. You may be surprised."

"I don't like surprises."

Smirk. "Now you _are _lying," Siegfried said, waving his gun in an admonishing manner as he ate. "Perhaps _Seto _does not like surprises, but I'm _sure _that you do. You don't want to hurt Ivan's feelings, do you? Not you. Not Seto Kaiba's golden boy."

"Ivan can drop dead," Mokuba snapped.

Siegfried looked genuinely puzzled. "Now, why would he do that?"

"Ask Niisama. He'll tell you."

Siegfried raised a thin, almost delicate eyebrow. "You _are _fascinating. Little Kaiba. Do you know, this is something I have wondered for quite some time, and I do hope you will indulge me. I do not doubt that you are a fair bit familiar with your...native tongue, if I may use the term, but you do not speak it regularly. Excepting that one particular title. 'Niisama.' Tell me...does he ask you to call him that?"

"No," Mokuba answered shortly.

"And why _do_ you, then?"

Mokuba gave a smirk of his own. "You wouldn't get it."

"Try me."

"I'd rather not."

Another of those short, irritatingly authentic laughs, but the hand gripping the gun tightened, and Mokuba was suddenly reminded of its presence. He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and said, "Because I have to."

Siegfried's grip loosened, and he looked curious as he took another bite of his meal. "You just stated that he does not ask you to use that title. So am I to assume this is something _you _have decided?"

"A long time ago."

"Why is that?"

"English wasn't good enough," Mokuba offered, shrugging. "He's more than my brother. A whole lot more. And I need to tell him that. He needs to hear it. Nobody else ever bothers to thank him for it. So I do."

Siegfried's smile was genuine. "So sweet of you, Little Kaiba. Touching. You two _are _inseparable, aren't you?"

"We never had any parents," Mokuba said, "so he had to be mine. It's just...what he decided."

"You do not consider the former Master Kaiba your father?"

Mokuba laughed bitterly. _Yeah, _he thought, _he's a father like _you're _a brother. I bet Leon just _adores _you, you psycho prick._

Siegfried leaned back, spoon gripped with two fingers, and eyed him studiously. "I see," he murmured, Again, his eyebrows raised, and he glanced over to the windows to his left, looking far off as if deep in thought. "Yes, well...one _does _hear stories," he said solemnly. "A sad state, living with that man must have been, if those stories are true. If I were to hazard a guess looking at you, Little Kaiba, I would say they are. Perhaps even worse. It would come as no surprise that you would cling to your brother, then. A...safety net, yes?"

Mokuba didn't answer.

Ivan came out again, and replaced the tray with another: an array of meats, breads and cheeses. And once again, the boy refused them. He said, "Why shouldn't I? He's done more for me than anybody else. He loves me. He protects me. I owe him everything."

Siegfried ate quietly, contemplatively. Frowning in concentration, he said after a moment, "...Everything. You owe him...everything?"

"Yes."

"Hm. Well, now, that _is _curious. I have to wonder if dear Seto planned it that way. How was it said? 'Men like him know which kids to bully, and which ones to protect?'"

"Quoting nighttime dramas at me, now?" Mokuba asked, suddenly irritated. "Don't pretend like you know him. You just sound stupid. Niisama doesn't protect me so I'll love him. He protects me because _he _loves _me. _It's pretty simple to understand if you're _human."_

"...I know Seto Kaiba better than you might think, my boy," Siegfried murmured softly, not the slightest bit riled. "In fact...I think I understand him quite a bit better than you would be comfortable with. I don't think you understand just what is happening, here, Little Kaiba, but in the end, I will show you what I know. You will see, child, before the end."

"I won't see anything except you with a bullet in your head," Mokuba dared. "You know he'll kill you for this, don't you? He doesn't have a gun so he can _look _at it. When he gets here...he's gonna use it."

Siegfried's smile didn't even twitch. "I know."

Mokuba's bravado faltered.

He stared.

"I know far more about how this night will end than you do, I'm afraid," Siegfried said, in a voice that was almost a purr. "And I'm also afraid to say you won't be _seeing _me with a bullet in my head. Although I'm certain you're right. That is more than likely how my life will end."

He continued to eat, and Mokuba continued to stare. Ivan came out again some time later, with a plate of sausages and potato salad. Again, there was that flash of apology, and again, Mokuba didn't want to see it. As he watched his captor eat, Mokuba felt his heart begin to speed up.

This was wrong.

This wasn't how...wasn't...

"You really should eat, dear boy," Siegfried said suddenly, and there was a glint in his eyes that was at odds with the pleasant expression on the rest of his face. Mokuba stiffened, clenching his hands into fists beneath the table. That tone spelled everything out in brutal, brutal clarity.

"This...is the last meal that either of us is likely to have."

* * *

**5.**

* * *

He'd started keeping the gun at his hip once Pegasus Crawford had taught him the insufferable folly of trusting people. It was a custom design, constructed and distributed when the Kaiba Corporation was still a supplier of military technology. It had been his...first test.

Seto had wondered at the time what sort of man would task a twelve-year-old boy with designing a firearm, but not anymore. And as he slipped the weapon—more familiar and intimate than almost any possession he owned—out of its holster and into the open air, he almost thanked Gozaburo for making him do it. Darren, rather than asking questions, followed suit and drew his own pistol from beneath his khaki jacket. Slipping past Seto, the detective moved easily, with practice and precision, and the deadly machine in his hands was as still as if it were embedded in granite.

"Hey," Tristan Taylor said, voice shaky and uncertain. "Are you...are you guys sure that those are...?"

"Shut up," Seto growled.

For a wonder, he did.

The young executive-turned-chess-piece dared a glance back at the pair behind himself and Darren, and saw that Joey's hands were twitching at his sides. Unlike Tristan, however, Joey was not shaking out of fear; he looked like he wanted to grip a weapon of his own. Tristan glanced at Seto, then at his friend, and drew in a breath. He shook his head. When he looked back at the mansion in front of them, his face was chiseled in stone. There was no use arguing; blood was going to spill tonight. _Whose_ blood was dependent on them.

_He's softer than Wheeler, _Seto thought distantly as he turned his gaze back to his destination, _but he's not soft. That's good. He'll need steel if he's going to survive tonight._

He did not know that Siegfried von Schroeder had a gun of his own trained on Mokuba at just this moment, as he ushered the boy from his seat in one corner to the center of the main parlor, but he assumed—correctly—that his former rival had no intention of going peacefully.

Peace was a dream for the weak.

The mansion to which Siegfried von Schroeder had directed them was just the sort of obstinate, brick-laden, 16th-century pseudo-castle that Seto might have expected from his pink-haired, sociopathic "old friend." The front doors were attached to an entryway dominated by large, curtain-less windows; the front lawn was simple but sculpted with military-grade precision, in much the same way that Seto kept his own.

It was all...perfectly welcoming.

Seto hated it.

Darren approached the entrance and backed against the wall to the left of the doors. Nodding to Seto and the others (who stepped to the side), he reached over and opened one. Seto entered, muscles tightening as he did. Then came Joey and Tristan; Darren brought up the rear.

Seto entered into a central hallway, and his attention was immediately caught by a security camera set above the first door to his right. He glanced back at Darren. "He knows we're here," he murmured mechanically. "Wheeler, Taylor, you and the detective scope out the rest of this heap. I want no surprises. I'll find our...host."

Joey and Tristan were more than willing to follow Seto's order, but Darren was shaking his head. "No," he said emphatically. He kneeled down and retrieved a compact pistol from a hidden holster at his ankle and handed it to Joey. "You two find the security system and see if you can figure out Mokuba's location. I'm staying with Seto. You know how to use that, don't you?"

Joey smirked without humor. "Always preferred my fists, all honesty." He handed the gun to Tristan, who handled it with obvious familiarity. "I'm a blunt trauma kinda guy. No worries, Magnum. We can take care of ourselves. If we end up dead, we prob'ly deserved it."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Speak for yourself. If I end up dead, I'm blaming _your _ass." He turned to Seto. "And don't think I won't haunt you, either."

Seto made no visible response. Instead, he turned to Darren. "Fine. Whatever."

And without another word, he reached for the door in front of him and opened it with a spasmodic jerk of his arm that nearly tore it off its hinges.

* * *

**6.**

* * *

"Well, now. Be polite, Little Kaiba. Greet your Niisama."

Seto heard the words, but only barely. He saw the room, but only barely.

He saw through the barrel of his weapon, and heard only the pounding of blood in his own ears. His peripheral vision caught the spindly chairs and round, glass-topped table; the empty plate on one end and the full plate of sausages and potatoes; the more robust couch in the center of the room, and the coffee table set just in front of it with a vase of lilacs as a centerpiece.

He saw...

A switch flipped in his mind. His vision, his ears, his mind, his very _being _homed in on them. Darren wasn't there. Wheeler and Taylor, exploring the hallway, they weren't there; the flowers, the furniture, the _mansion _wasn't there.

Nothing.

Except his brother, standing beside the glass-topped table, rigid and shaking with tears in his eyes; lower lip trembling, pitifully tiny fists clenching and unclenching, clenching and unclenching, as he strained mightily not to scream. And behind him...sitting in a chair behind the boy so that his body was almost entirely obscured, as cool and nonchalant as if this scene were completely normal...

"You're here just in time, my dearest Seto," said Siegfried von Schroeder, and Seto could barely keep from flinching away from the abject _calmness _in that smooth, articulate, arrogant voice. "And you've brought someone else with you, how nice. How considerate. You'll want to see this, both of you."

Seto couldn't speak. He could barely think.

Darren spoke for him. "See _what?"_

Siegfried turned his gaze to the detective, just barely visible behind Mokuba's quavering, shivering form. He grinned pleasantly, and said without a touch of anything but the utmost pleasantness,

"The end of the world."

* * *

**END.**

* * *

**_The decision to use Siegfried as the villain here was a simple one: I'd never written him before. And to this day, I still haven't seen the KC Grand Prix arc in its entirety, so I know his character just enough to use him, and not much more. To be completely honest, I'm not exactly thrilled with the way that the anime handled these Kaiba-centric filler stories, because they feel...done already. Both Siegfried and Amelda, in different ways, feel like carbon copies of Seto created explicitly to heighten the emotional turmoil. Feels kind of cheap._**

**_The only "Seto clone" of which I'm fond is Rishid Ishtar, primarily because he's a lot more subtle about it. The Ishtar family dynamic fascinates me, and ranks in second overall in the series for me. I doubt I need to tell you which comes in first for me._**

**_In any case, I had fun with Siegfried, and I do hope that I've made him compelling, in spite of the divergences I've made to the character in the anime. Trust me, there's a reason for it._**

**_You'll see._**


	16. Shot in the Dark V

**_It's recently come to my attention that this story hasn't been touched in about a year at my end. Its second birthday passed a couple months back, and I realized that I had only posted a handful of chapters since the first birthday. Thus, I've been focusing on this particular piece of work. I've been stuck in revision mode for a long time, and I'm not the best at handling that particular side of the creative process, which is half the reason it's taken me so long. But I hope that the work put into these following chapters will be worth the wait; compared to the first draft, I believe that this version is far superior._**

**_This is, "The Saboteur."_**

* * *

**1.  
**

* * *

Footsteps approached. Salvation was just a few feet from the door.

But Mokuba couldn't move. He felt magnetized, physically attached to the gun against his back, welded to it. Siegfried had ordered him to stand, and he had stood; Siegfried had ordered him to turn, and he had turned. And now Siegfried was seated in one of the other chairs, mere inches behind him, and Mokuba knew what was going on here. He had been used as a poker chip more than once; Siegfried had just taken it a step further.

This time, Mokuba was a shield.

For the first time he could remember, the thought of his brother being here didn't bolster the young Kaiba's spirits; it terrified him. There had been something different in Siegfried von Schroeder's face right from the beginning, something he hadn't seen in all the others, and it made all the difference in the world.

The others had expected to make it out alive.

Each of the men who had abducted Mokuba in the past had had one primary motivation: to survive. And Seto had never failed to make it clear that survival wasn't on the negotiating table. The key to victory had always been Seto's willingness to kill. That most primal of instincts always kicked in at that realization; everybody knew that hurting the heir to the Kaiba fortune was a death sentence, and they stayed clear.

But this man...this young man who fancied himself Seto's equal in everything...had an advantage. In his own mind, Siegfried von Schroeder was already dead. He had nothing to lose, and that meant Seto had nothing to take. The understanding of the consequences of his actions today was a far more effective shield against Seto than Mokuba was. He had no need to worry because the worst-case scenario had already happened. This was Siegfried's final victory.

There was no reasoning with, no negotiating with, and certainly no intimidating the walking dead.

The cold metal of Siegfried's weapon dug painfully into Mokuba's back, and the boy had a forceful image of being torn in half by a blast of gunfire. All Siegfried had to do was squeeze with a single finger. Mokuba tried to imagine—against his own will—how much it would hurt.

How much blood would spill.

How much...

How much...

And he doubted—against his own will—that his big brother would be able to save him this time.

* * *

**2.  
**

* * *

The first thought that came to him was so redundant that it did no good whatsoever: _Something isn't right._

The sad truth of the matter was that this situation was nothing new to Seto Kaiba. He was used to the confidence, used to the overwhelming sense of superiority; he had long since acclimated to this man's egotism. He'd seen it in so many other people that it should have been boring. It should have been so commonplace that he could ignore it. But somehow, it wasn't, and he couldn't.

Siegfried von Schroeder was _too _confident.

And more to the point...Mokuba was too scared.

There was something going on here that he didn't know; something he didn't understand. It wasn't the gun pressed against Mokuba's back. That much he could guess. It was something else, something underneath. Something said, something done, something..._wrong._

Mokuba didn't answer Siegfried's prodding, but it didn't seem as though an answer was expected or even wanted. Or, Seto thought, he didn't answer _vocally_. The look on the boy's face was answer enough; it sent one message, as clear as any message he'd ever received. It said, _don't let him._

Don't let him win. Don't let him intimidate you.

Don't let him kill me.

Seto's face hardened, his focused honed as sharply as it ever had, and his grip on the pistol in his hands tightened. "Well, _you _look cheerful," he offered, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Were you planning a surprise party for me?"

Siegfried's insufferable grin widened. "You hate surprises," he said.

"I hate a great many things."

"I doubt that, dear boy. You don't have the time. You're too busy to hate. Hate isn't only useless, Seto. It is destructive. It is distracting. It is...expensive."

Seto's smirk was painful. "You would certainly know," he said. "So? Get on with it, von Schroeder. Do whatever it is you've decided you need to do. I don't have much time and I have even less patience."

Mokuba went pale and let out a tiny, involuntary squeak as Siegfried's gun dug into his back. "Tell your misinformed brother why that likely isn't the best course of action for him right now. Or...for you."

"N...N-Niisama-a..." Mokuba whimpered, and the terror in his voice said...everything.

Seto ground his teeth into a snarl. "If that's the case, I have to wonder why you haven't done it already. If this was your aim from the beginning, you would have been better served in letting Saruwatari finish the job. Instead of...this."

Siegfried looked genuinely puzzled. "Seto...haven't we discussed this? I thought you told me already, I am not that efficient. And besides, why would I do that? Do you think me heartless?" (_I think you're brainless, _Seto thought) "I wouldn't _dream _of doing such a thing! How would it look if I let poor little Mokuba die without giving him the chance to tell his beloved Niisama goodbye?"

"About the same as you do right now, von Schroeder," Seto hissed. "Pathetic."

Mokuba bit his lower lip, closed his eyes, and shuddered. Seto would think later that his little brother had more courage in him than he, personally, would ever have. When the young Kaiba opened his eyes again, they were dry. Clear. Steady.

Heartbreaking.

* * *

**3.  
**

* * *

_...And people call _me _brave, _thought Detective Darren McKinley, as he watched Mokuba Kaiba draw himself together and force himself to be calm. _Dear Host in Heaven, what kind of hell could draw that kind of control out of a ten-year-old boy?_

It didn't take him long to realize that he didn't want to know.

He had a guess—he didn't know, and didn't dare ask—that Mokuba was no stranger to firearms. It was likely he'd had a few pointed at him before. But it was a rather simple realization that he'd never had one pressed up against his spine before. As brave a front as he was putting up—and Darren thought that just for that, he deserved a medal—the black-haired boy was petrified right now. The message on his face was as clear as day.

He was begging his big brother to save him.

"You're not letting this go easily," Seto said, and it wasn't a question. His gaze was riveted on this man that Darren had never seen before (although he was obviously familiar to both Kaibas), and for his part, Siegfried von Schroeder kept _his _eyes locked on Seto.

"It will be _quite _easy," Siegfried purred. "But first, I should like to catch up. It's been a long time, Seto. Won't you at least say hello?"

"Hello," Seto growled, and it sounded like a curse.

"I don't have some ulterior motive, you know," Siegfried continued, still with that happy grin on his face. "I don't have any demands. I'm not here to negotiate with you, or anything of that nature. I'm not going to challenge you to a _duel._ So asking me to move it along will do none of us any good."

"So," Seto replied, "you have a pistol pressed against my brother's back for _kicks, _then. Beautiful. Tell me again why we never got along."

"Oh, it's not for...ahem...kicks," Siegfried assured. "I have a purpose in mind. Do you not remember? You have already decided that I am seeking retribution. Vengeance, you called it. It is as good a motivation as any, I suppose."

Seto's eyes narrowed. He seemed to be searching for something. Some sign, some telling twitch, on his former rival's face. Some chink in his armor that would give him the opening he needed. Darren shifted slightly to the right, and Seto's eyes flickered in his direction and back again so fast that Darren would have missed it if he hadn't been looking directly at the young executive's face. Siegfried gave no indication that he had seen anything.

Darren wondered vaguely about Joey Wheeler and Tristan Taylor. What they were doing; if they had managed to find anything. If they had any clue what was happening here. Grimacing, he tightened his hold on his pistol and readjusted his aim.

Seto gave a slight scoff. "You...you son of a bitch."

Siegfried chuckled. "I wondered if you would say that," he murmured thoughtfully. "Such a common phrase. I had hoped that you might pick something a bit more colorful. But...I suppose not."

"You want colorful?" Seto asked. "I'll give you the whole goddamned rainbow if you'd rather." He forced a grin, pained and manic, onto his face. "I just don't want to chance Mokuba repeating any of it later."

"Ah, well," the German psychopath said, still with laughter in his voice. "Are you so sure you want to be that stringent? After all. Circumstances allowing, dear Seto. Perhaps you could let the boy speak his mind for once?"

"Whatever you're implying," Seto snapped, "say it clearly. I'm not interested in games, and you're not in much of a position to force me to play them."

"Nor are you in any position to force me to stop," Siegfried said, and for the first time there was a trace of new emotion in his voice. Anger? But almost instantly, it was gone, and the sunny smile was back. "You see, Seto, as I've already said, there isn't going to be any negotiation here. Both of us are...well, shall I say, backed into a corner? You know what I am going to do, and I know what you are going to do. That is all. How long it takes us to perform these actions would likely be up to you."

Siegfried would kill Mokuba.

Seto would kill Siegfried.

And then, in all likelihood...Seto would kill himself.

Darren realized why Mokuba looked so frightened, even though this wasn't his first, nor his second, nor even his third time being used as a target for revenge. This time was different because this time, there was no way out.

No chances. No games. No demands.

Just a death sentence.

Unless...

* * *

**4.  
**

* * *

_How long it takes us to perform these actions would likely be up to you._

Seto ground his teeth as he stared into the laughing, mocking face of the Grim Reaper, and realized the truth of that. Yes. It would be up to him. Even this time, even though Siegfried had said under no uncertain terms that there would be no chance to negotiate, there was still a chance. There was still a path to take.

He had to kill Siegfried first.

But...did he trust his aim? Did he trust the speed of his hand? Would he be fast enough? Would there be enough time, even in the most optimal of circumstances, for his finger to pull the trigger, for the bullet to fly, and for Siegfried to die before the damage was done?

Mokuba was beginning to shake. Tears were forming in the corners of his eyes. He was crying. Seto couldn't think. He couldn't gauge. Mokuba was crying. _Damn it, _how was he supposed to do this? How was he supposed to get Mokuba out of this? How was he supposed to win out this time? How the _hell _was he—

Click.

He stopped. No. He had no time for this. He wasn't sure what path was open to him in order to save his brother, but the one thing he did know was that panicking was the one, surefire, no-nonsense way to get the boy killed.

"...You look like you understand now, old friend," Siegfried said now.

"Oh. I understand perfectly."

Siegfried's grin returned, looking like he'd just watched a prized puppy learn to sit properly. "Good! I'm glad! There will be no confusion, then. So, why so restrictive on what your dear baby brother should be allowed to say? Surely _now, _of all times, rules and regulations and lessons and doctrines should not come into play?"

"He can say whatever he likes," Seto shot back. "Do I look like I have a remote control that will stop him? He knows what I expect of him. If he decides to act outside of accordance with those expectations, that is his decision to make."

"Ah, but there. You see there? That underlying threat that says he will be punished if he _acts _on that decision. That tone that says Niisama won't love him anymore if he doesn't do as he's told."

Seto sighed. "I trust that Mokuba is better able to analyze my _tone _than you are, von Schroeder. Forgive me if I defer to _his _judgment on the matter."

Siegfried shrugged. "I do believe you would defer to little Mokuba's judgment on a great many matters," he said idly. "That much, I must admit. If I were to point out one thing in particular that is admirable about you, old friend, it would have to be your devotion to this most charming child. It's quite endearing. But you know..."

The pleasant smile sharpened into a smirk.

"...I must wonder if it will be enough. Will devotion alone see you through this day? See _both _of you through this day? I must confess, I have my doubts."

* * *

**5.  
**

* * *

"The hell're we supposed to do?" Tristan asked irritably as he and Joey sneaked through the dank, empty halls of 1342 Yellowtail Terrace, checking doors and finding nothing but dust and echoes. "There's nothin' _here. _Kaiba 'n soldier-boy are still in that front room, and I'm damn sure I heard somebody say 'Niisama' back there. We're here to help Mokuba, right? Why ain't we back _there?"_

Joey stopped, turned. He looked conflicted, but convicted just the same. "'Cuz what good're we gonna do for 'em? You saw Kaiba with that gun. You know guns. Did he look like an amateur?"

Tristan frowned. "...No."

"And he's with a cop. Not some coffee-and-doughnuts rent-a-cop, either. That guy's the real deal. You wanna tell me we're gonna actually _help _them? We're baggage, Tris. Best we can do is find the security system, like they said, and hope we run into somebody stupid enough to stop us." The blond grinned. "Hey, maybe we'll run into Saruwata-what's-it."

Tristan wanted to look offended, but he had to admit that Joey had a point. Kaiba was clearly no stranger to a fight; he wasn't some pampered, silver-spoon prodigy who'd _inherited _his position. Over the years, it had become pretty clear that Kaiba had clawed his way to the top, with sweat in his eyes and blood on his hands and broken fingernails. And Darren McKinley, well...sometimes he looked no older than Tristan himself, and other times he looked older than Yugi's grandfather. Joey was right. He was the kind of cop that Tristan had spent most of his early teens avoiding at all costs: the ones who knew how to use themselves as well as any gun or handcuffs. The ones who _knew _what they were doing.

The ones who'd look right at home in the army.

_...Small wonder those two are friends, _Tristan thought, and almost laughed.

Any semblance of humor left him in a rush as he heard footsteps. Joey froze.

"Well, well. _More_ familiar faces. It's like a high school reunion."

Tristan wouldn't have called himself an authority on voices, but this one in particular was easy to remember. He knew without thinking who was standing behind him, and from just how stiff Joey had become, he knew it, too. The familiar voice began to chuckle. Dark, ominous, confident.

Clearly, he was mistaking surprise for fear.

"So, care to explain why you're trespassing on private property? I'm pretty sure nobody invited you in. I'm afraid I'm going to have to...ahem...ask you to leave."

"Well...that's a cryin' shame," said Joey, who had always been the ringleader. He and Tristan had been getting into fights for years; almost ever since they had met when they were thirteen years old. And every time, Joey did the talking. Joey was by far the more assertive one. Tristan was the wingman, the backup, the sidekick.

This wasn't to say that Tristan was any less reckless. As he turned to face his latest conquest, he could barely keep himself from giggling like a maniac. It'd been far too long since he'd been able to vent, and this was the perfect punching bag.

He had a score to settle with this one.

Saruwatari was tall, and he was big, and he was cocky as anyone Tristan had ever met. And to most anyone else, he would have cut an intimidating figure. His suit bulged as his gigantic muscles strained against it, which should have looked ridiculous but somehow didn't. His sunglasses were gleaming and almost glowing in the meager light of the hallway, his hair so painstakingly gelled that it looked set in concrete.

In many ways, this man reminded Tristan of Joey's old gang leader. Hirutani had been almost as tall, almost as big, and twice as cocky. He'd never worn suits, but he'd always kept his school uniforms in good shape, unlike most of his underlings. He'd always tucked in his shirts, and he'd always ironed his pants and jacket, always polished his boots.

If he'd dyed his hair, changed his clothes, and bulked up a bit more, he would have looked identical to the man standing in front of Tristan right now.

Barring one major difference.

Hirutani knew how to _fight._

Joey turned on one heel, and unlike Tristan hadn't even bothered to keep the grin from his face. The familiar sheen of bloodlust was in his bright brown eyes, and his fists were clenched so tightly that they shook. He was almost salivating.

Saruwatari didn't look quite so confident anymore.

"Y'see..." Joey said slowly, almost purring, "...a buddy of ours is in this house, and we ain't leavin' without 'im. So if you want us to leave...you're gonna hafta force us."

* * *

**6.  
**

* * *

"I can see where you're headed with this," Seto snapped. "You're going to spend some time worming your way into my head, pretending like you're just making conversation while whoever the hell you have tying your shoes for you in this trash-heap makes a pot of tea. You're going to demonize me, try to make me doubt myself, but most of all you're going to make Mokuba doubt me. Just to watch me squirm. Tell me, von Schroeder, how close am I?"

"How close do you _need _to be, old friend?"

Seto scoffed and rolled his eyes. "If you're aiming to piss me off, you've already done that."

Siegfried blinked innocently. "I'm _aiming _at your brother's spinal cord."

Seto's laugh was bitter. Darren flinched. Mokuba let out a tiny yelp.

"Oh, you think you have me," Seto said. "You think you've figured everything out to the letter. Every move planned, every strategy covered. You figure the more _stupidly _you act, the angrier I'll get, and that the angrier I get, the more likely I'll be to make a mistake. You want me to slip up and _then _pull the trigger, just so you can be absolutely _certain _I'll feel responsible for it."

"Oh, come now, Seto. Don't lie to me, and don't lie to yourself. Everyone here in this room knows that you're going to feel responsible no matter _what _happens here today. That, more than anything, is your weakness. It's not just that you love your brother; it's not just that you want to protect him. Your true Achilles' heel is that whenever something _does _happen to poor little Mokuba, no matter who is at fault for the deed, you blame yourself. You take on the burden of guilt like a favorite coat, and woe betide anyone with the audacity to take it from you."

Seto's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He gave no indication that he'd even heard most of what Siegfried was saying. He seemed hell-bent to forget that Siegfried could even speak, much less pose a threat to his brother, as if pure willpower could remove the man from existence.

Siegfried tilted his head to the side. "For example...as I hear it told, Mokuba walked right into my little trap. How simple would it have been for him to avoid Adachi, if he had only been paying attention. Why, if he'd only looked _up_...but you don't lay the blame at Mokuba's feet, do you?" The man's eyes twinkled with mirth. "No, no, because _why _was Mokuba distracted? _Why _did he get into that vehicle? Because he was playing a game given to him by...oh, who was it? Ah. That's right. You. And that's all you need to justify taking the blame, isn't it? It's just that simple to you, isn't it?"

Seto drew in a breath. "I don't pretend to know why my brother ended up in this situation. I don't intend to press him for answers, either. I know only that _this _is the arena you've prepared, and you would have stopped at nothing until we were here. If Mokuba had evaded Saruwatari this time, you would have tried again. And again. And again. And whether it be a month from now or a year, eventually we would have been here, having this conversation. So I find it difficult to care whose fault it is that it was today."

He didn't want to have to talk this damned much. He would have liked it if talking had been unnecessary from the beginning. But Siegfried had anticipated that, and the sad fact of the matter was that there was no possible way for any shot he made to reach Siegfried without going straight through Mokuba. He was using the black-haired boy as a shield; a pale, shaking, terrified shield.

The usual method wasn't going to work.

He had to stall.

He had to wait.

Siegfried leaned up closer to Mokuba. "You see, there, Little Kaiba? How easily your brother passes over the truth? _You _know how ridiculously easy it would have been to escape this entire fiasco, don't you? _You _know who to blame...don't you?"

Mokuba closed his eyes and didn't answer. He was having enough trouble breathing.

"The _truth?" _Seto hissed. "Oh, you want to start discussing the _truth_, do you? _That's _a new trick for you, von Schroeder. In my experience, _you _prefer to indulge in self-serving delusion. If I'm not mistaken, you've managed to rationalize your behavior today as a _favor _to me."

"A favor?" Siegfried echoed. "To you? _Now _who's indulging in delusion, Seto? This isn't for you. No, no, not at all. If this is a favor to anyone, it's a favor to dear, darling little Mokuba. You'll see, young one. Just wait and see, and I'll show you the truth. And when it's over, I'll save you from the truth. I'm not a serial killer, you know. I don't do this for enjoyment."

"It's amazing how easily you walk straight into your own hypocrisy," Seto muttered.

Darren wasn't saying a word, wasn't making a sound. He was simply observing. Waiting. Gauging. Seto didn't dare a glance at his companion, knowing that it would count as a slip-up, and if Siegfried was even half as insane as he looked, then he would take that miniscule opportunity...and everything would be over.

As Seto's own traitorous imagination conjured up an image of what would happen if Siegfried actually managed to pull the trigger, he realized what was different here. He realized the part of the equation that hadn't computed.

And he realized why fear was started to coil its way around his gut.

Crawford's aim had been to manipulate Seto.

Ishtar's aim had been to manipulate Seto.

The man who went by the name Amelda's aim...had been to manipulate Seto.

Even Noa, whose short-lived abduction Mokuba didn't even remember, had been out for Seto.

But Siegfried?

There really _was _no ulterior motive here. There wasn't a game to be played, or a contest to overcome, a claim to stake. There was nothing here but Siegfried, Mokuba, and a weapon. There wasn't a damned thing Seto could do to placate this man into dropping his guard.

Siegfried von Schroeder already had _exactly _what he wanted.

* * *

**7.  
**

* * *

Not many people would have caught it.

Darren did, and that meant Mokuba did as well: Seto was starting to slip. It was subtle, and he might not have taken note of it at all except for the fact that now, more than ever, Seto needed to be impeccably calm. But there was a faint twitch, just enough to show that despite everything, Seto was getting angry.

Angry...and fearful.

Only part of it had to do with Siegfried von Schroeder himself.

Seto was a man long accustomed to being taken seriously. He was often criticized, but all the more often he was respected, and feared, and envied. Darren's own daughter fell into the most devout category of all, those who all but _worshipped _him. And when Seto Kaiba was angry, or offended, or irritated...people knew it. And they responded. Darren could recall many occasions where a simple glare from his young friend—no words, just a look—was enough to send people running.

Siegfried was not so much an enemy in and of himself as he was an idea: resistance. Not _just _resistance, but _strong _resistance. Here was an obstacle that could not be dealt with normally. Here was a man who not only fought him, but reveled in it. So unused to this particular breed of adversary, Seto was losing his grip on his usual ironclad control. It was slow, and it was subtle, but it was steady.

And for his part, Darren was sure, Siegfried was loving every moment of it.

The detective made a slow, slight, almost-step shift to the right. He had to take the opportunity as it presented itself, and if he could only get the right angle, he could end this charade before Siegfried's attention ever left his rival.

"Are you done playing the self-sacrificing martyr?" Seto asked, exasperated, still with his own pistol aimed squarely at Siegfried; which, consequently, meant that it was aimed at Mokuba. Darren couldn't even guess how that must look from the young Kaiba's point of view.

Shift to the right.

"You'll know when I am done, Seto, my dear," Siegfried crooned. "Are you down to ignoring me now? Are you deflecting now? Because you know I am right, and there is no use arguing? Do you realize now that you can't win with your normal tactics?"

"If you want me to play this game," Seto said, "you'll have to provide me with some incentive."

"Isn't the incentive simple?" Siegfried asked, clearly puzzled. "The longer I talk to you, the longer your brother lives."

"But in the end, you intend to kill him."

"Of course."

"Then I say again, provide me with some incentive."

Siegfried looked ready to laugh. "What more incentive could you possibly need? Is time not important to you if it cannot be gauged in years? Months? Days? When is the cutoff point, Seto, when the time one has left becomes meaningless?"

"I...will _not..._bury my brother."

"Well, I'm sorry to say that you have no choice in that matter, Seto, unless you intend to keep his body as a statue for your front parlor. Do you know a taxidermist? Or would you just dip him in liquid gold?"

"Apparently you didn't hear me, von Schroeder."

"I heard you. _I _just know that you're lying, and it would seem that you do not. Tell me, Seto, what pose would you pick for your statue? Would he be standing? Sitting down? Would he have his Gameboy?"

_"You'll _be my statue, von Schroeder," Seto snapped, "and you'll be on your knees. Wrapped in tinfoil in my freezer."

Shift.

Siegfried laughed. "Such confidence!" he cried. "You see, Seto? _This _is why you are so vastly entertaining! Nothing ever gets under your skin, does it, old friend? No, you are quite the machine. When a task must be completed, there is _nothing_ except that task, isn't there? And right now, you're thinking that this task would be to kill me. Kill me quickly. Kill me before I cause any damage. And everything will be fine."

"Not at all," Seto sneered. "The task _I _had in mind was to sit down and have a mug of coffee. Why do you insist on drawing out this melodrama? Is this _fun _to you? You're all the same. Empty threats. You hold out the possibility of hurting my brother so that I'll dance on your strings. It's getting old."

Siegfried's laughter turned a shade darker.

Shift.

"We both know that I'm not here to make you dance, Seto. But the big question remains: do you intend to call my bluff? Are you willing to take that chance? Are you willing to wager your brother's life on that chance?"

Shift.

Seto tightened his grip on his gun. "The true question is whether _you _intend to call _my _bluff."

"Most unfortunately for you, old friend...I already have."

There. Another twitch. Beneath his lips, pulled down in a scowl, Seto's teeth were clenched. His jaw flexed. Mokuba bit his lower lip, closing his eyes for a moment as he drew in a shuddering breath that came out as a tiny, strangled cry. Seto's entire face gave a spasm and his hands shook, throwing off his aim. He caught it again almost instantly.

And all the while, Siegfried chuckled.

_Hell isn't deep enough for you, _Darren thought savagely.

"What are you after, von Schroeder?" Seto asked in a near-whisper. "What is the point of this? You claim to accept that I'm going to kill you. Smart. Smarter than the others. But at the same time, hopelessly stupid. Acting without reason is _more _than stupid. It's the definition of insanity."

Siegfried hummed. "We've been through this already, Seto. You have your answer. Take it. You're not going to get a better one from me. You can just assume that I am driven by the simple desire to see you suffer."

"Why _him, _then? Why not aim the gun at me?"

Darren heard a note that was almost pleading in the question.

Seto was trying to reason with psychosis.

"Collateral damage, I'm afraid," Siegfried said offhandedly. He turned his attention to Mokuba. "I _am _sorry, little one. You are a fine boy, and I do despair to see you caught in this, and only for the crime of being tied to this man. If it is any consolation, know that you are loved. That is why you are here, after all." He looked back up at Seto. "You _do _love your brother quite deeply, don't you, Seto? You should tell him, you know. You should take the time to say goodbye."

"Fuck you."

"...Indeed? Fascinating."

Shift.

Siegfried's eyes flickered.

By the sudden widening of the man's crazed grin—although the most disturbingly crazed thing _about _that grin was that it looked so very nat ural—Darren knew that he'd been seen. Siegfried laughed heartily. "Ah! Yes! You _are _well-trained, aren't you, Detective? I've heard of you. So quiet, so calm. So subtle. Yes. You must be thinking, if you can just get the right angle...why, you might just be able to take me down before I even realize it! And you think that maybe, just maybe, even if I _do _manage to pull the trigger—" he pushed his gun against Mokuba's back, "—perhaps it won't kill him? Perhaps, you hope against hope, it will only cripple him? Perhaps you will throw off my aim, and it will only graze him? Yes..."

He chuckled again, shaking his head.

"Well, now...perhaps..."

He switched his weapon from his right hand to his left, sliding it so that it never lost contact with its target, and knelt down. Reaching up and around with his free hand, Siegfried slid his arm up under Mokuba's and almost tenderly gripped the boy's chin.

Grinning pleasantly, he forced Mokuba's mouth open, just enough for the cold metal barrel to fit.

* * *

**END.  
**


	17. Shot in the Dark VI

_**The holiday season is weird. At one end, it's jovial, and happy, and fun. At the other, it's frustrating, hectic, confusing, and just plain weird. It's been three months since I've touched this story, partly because of final exams, partly because of Christmas, partly because of a friend from out of state visiting for two weeks, partly because of my last semester of school coming up...and a host of other distractions and/or excuses about which you probably don't want to hear.**_

_**If it's any consolation, this chapter here is longer than usual, and the conclusion to the six-part story arc that's dominated the entire work for the past year. There are two more chapters that make up the falling action, along with an epilogue. This will mark the end of the first "season" of this story.**_

_**Fasten your seat-belts, people. We're nearing, "Endgame."**_

* * *

**1.  
**

* * *

Abduction.

Kidnapping, child theft, bodysnatching, whatever term one wanted to use, it was among the most common fears among any parent Darren McKinley had ever met. In the back of every mother's mind, every father's mind, there was the threat of someone, somewhere, taking their baby away from them; a neighbor, a relative, the eternal boogeyman invariably called the Stranger.

Among those parents, Darren had only known a single one to have met that threat.

Not once. Not twice. Not three, and now, not even four times.

Seto had discussed Pegasus Crawford, Malik Ishtar, and Amelda at length. The fourth, Darren didn't know. Seto had called it...personal. Darren was beginning to think that Seto was trying to forget the fourth had ever happened. But Darren did know that, whether the abductor had two names or one name or none, he had never come out on top against Seto Kaiba. He was the ultimate target, and he had never failed to meet the challenge head-on, and come away with victory.

The worst had been the first. Pegasus Crawford, though not old by any stretch of the imagination, had been the oldest. The richest. The most prepared. And when he had taken Mokuba, it had been the perfect crime. He had waited for the perfect moment, executed his plan with military precision, and even when Mokuba had managed to escape, it was only for a handful of hours.

It had taken Yugi Motou, of all people, to deliver Mokuba back to his brother.

"Niisama saved me first, though," Mokuba had said once. "Yugi helped."

Now...Yugi Motou wasn't here.

And it was impossible to tell which of the two Kaiba brothers was more terrified.

Mokuba whimpered, shaking as his hands twitched spasmodically upward, desperately wanting to remove the gun from his mouth. His head pulled backward, trying to get away, but Siegfried had him pinned. Tears finally sprang from his eyes as his entire body was seized with terror.

Darren felt his heart clawing its way through him, up his throat to escape from his body and shoot this bastard itself. Fury did not begin to describe what he felt right now, as every bad memory of his long career flashed into his vision and personified themselves into this...this one...single...

Mokuba's eyes, wide and feral and streaming, flicked endlessly from his brother to the weapon in front of him. He continued to shudder, and shut his eyes painfully tight as his hands clenched into tiny, pitiful little fists. Darren could hear Mokuba's breath as it sped up, grew louder, and he knew that the poor boy was using every bit of remaining willpower he could force out of himself to calm down. To believe.

To have faith.

Seto's eyes smoldered like cobalt coals set into his skull, and when he spoke, the voice of death left his lips: "...If there was any chance in hell of you getting out of this alive...you just threw it out...the goddamned window..."

But Siegfried just kept smiling. "Why so...hesitant...Seto? Oh. Dear. Are you not feeling well?"

"S-Shut up. You son of a whore, just _shut up!"_

Siegfried laughed. "Oh, but doesn't it sound like the great Seto Kaiba is _finally _losing his composure! My, my, have I _finally _convinced you? Do you see now? I think...yes. I think you do. How wonderful." He glanced down at Mokuba, looking every bit like a natural predator. "I think your beloved Niisama sees the truth now...don't you?" He frowned, but Darren knew that every move, every twitch, every tweak of muscle was a precisely choreographed act by now; there wasn't an honest drop of blood in this man's veins. "Oh...poor darling. Are you frightened? Shhh...now, now, no need for that. You won't feel a thing. You can trust me, little Kaiba. It won't hurt at all, this way. You see? I'm not _evil. _I don't derive pleasure from this. Now, now, there's a good boy. Calm down...no more crying."

And all the while...that manic, devil's grin.

Seto drew in a breath. Slow, steady. He let it out. Slow, silent.

"This...moment...is the first time that I have ever wished...for hell to exist," he said, low and haunting. "Even if it means that I am headed there myself, it will be all the compensation I would ever need to see you there first."

"You flatter me, Seto."

"I hate you."

"I know."

* * *

**2.  
**

* * *

Joey was no stranger to the adrenaline rush that came from a good fight. He'd lived on it, like a high-class narcotic, for years. It was the essence of competition; raw power and primal instincts, using the body as both weapon _and _shield. The purest manifestation of survival, played out like a ballet on rough-hewn blacktop.

And he had wondered, after spending so much time outside of his once-preferred arena, if it would frighten him to return. He'd wondered if he could lower himself to that base, animalistic level again, without feeling horror grip his gut and wring him dry.

It wasn't so.

Faced with a real, honest fight for the first time in over a year, Joey Wheeler was nothing if not _lusting _for it. Saruwatari was standing there, right in front of them like an early Christmas present, ready to be unwrapped. He wasn't preparing for battle; his hands were in his pockets, his smirk was primal but almost lethargic, and Joey knew that he wasn't taking them seriously.

So much the better.

If there was one thing Joey Wheeler and Tristan Taylor knew how to take advantage of, it was underestimation. Tristan's entire body was corded steel, ready to spring at a moment's notice. It was just like the old days. People had always marveled at how well they could read each other's movements, and usually came to the conclusion that Joey and Tristan could read each other's minds, as well. And it almost felt like that, sometimes.

Without a word, without the faintest sign, Tristan started moving. He veered to the right, and Joey came sliding up behind him to the left. Before Saruwatari could even take his hands from his pockets, before the smirk ever left his face, Tristan sent a savage kick straight up into his groin. The great behemoth's breath flew from his lungs with a high-pitched, _"hu-ngh!"_

Joey gave him no time to recover. He latched onto the man's bear-like right arm and swung it over his shoulder. He remembered that Tristan had tried this maneuver, back at Duelist Kingdom when they had first met this giant. He remembered that it hadn't worked, that Saruwatari had decent reflexes despite his size, and knew where his friend had gone wrong.

Tristan had opted to _throw _him, giving him both the time and the space to recover.

Instead of letting go, Joey rolled his target over his shoulder and slammed him to the floor with a crash that shook the walls. Joey jumped backward, and Tristan—not missing the opportunity—stomped onto Saruwatari's throat.

The pistol Darren had given Tristan was in his hand, and Joey didn't remember when he had drawn it. If forced to guess, he would have said that Tristan didn't remember, either. But it didn't matter. He leveled it on Saruwatari's face, and grimaced.

"I've been using these things for years," he said, sounding solemn and furious at the same time, eyes blazing. "And people have told me, never pick up a gun unless you're ready to kill somebody with it. Take a guess on if I'm ready right now, you stupid son of a bitch."

Joey frowned. "Tristan. Wait."

Tristan's head snapped up. "What? You gonna tell me this fucktard doesn't deserve it? Kidnapping the kid twice isn't enough? Are we seriously going to give him a _third _strike?"

"Oh, he deserves it..." Joey hissed, "...but not from us. This is Kaiba's fight. We're just backup. If this idiot was a _threat_, I'd say go ahead and waste 'im. Lord knows you'd be doin' a public service."

"...Kaiba's fight."

"He's a big brother. So'm I. You're a little brother. You know well as me, this one's personal. Let Kaiba handle it."

Tristan's eyes narrowed. "...Search him, then. We aren't gonna get the jump on him twice."

Joey searched, and found a compact pistol (which would have looked ludicrously small and toy-like if Saruwatari had ever tried to use it with one of his elephantine fists) and a combat knife. He handed the gun to Tristan, and slipped the knife into his belt.

Saruwatari surged upward.

Tristan was pitched to the floor, and all at once the roles were reversed. Saruwatari's glasses had fallen off, revealing eyes that were too small for the concrete slab of his face, narrowed nearly to paper-cuts as he wrapped his clawing fingers around Tristan's throat.

Cold steel flashed into Joey's hand.

"Okay. _Now _he's a threat."

* * *

**3.  
**

* * *

_...God tested Abraham and said to him, "Abraham!"_

_ "Here I am," he answered._

_ "Take your son," He said, "your only son Isaac, whom you love, go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will tell you about."_

* * *

Seto Kaiba hated Abraham, with a disgust so passionate that it was sentient. He had told Darren, in a moment of brutal honesty (and there were many of those), that as a boy, when he had read the Bible most studiously, the sacrifice of Isaac was the first—and perhaps most fundamental—factor in Seto's decision to rely on his own strength, and his own strength only. That any higher that would call upon such sacrifice was never to be trusted.

Now, standing here, gun cocked and aimed at the cruelest mockery of God he had ever seen, Darren understood. He had always understood, on some level. But now that Siegfried had called on Seto to sacrifice _his_ Isaac—his only son Isaac, whom he loved—and showed no indication that it was only a test of faith...he understood on a deep, primal level that set his blood afire.

There would be no angel to stay this sacrifice; only Abraham himself.

_T__his _Abraham had no need for angels.

"Do you know, Seto, the saddest part about all this?" Siegfried asked, as Mokuba cried and his chattering teeth clacked and scraped against the metal in his mouth. Seto's face did not spasm so much as it _writhed, _and it only seemed to excite Siegfried further.

"The fact that you're stupid enough to think it will work," Seto replied, his voice as cracked as his defenses. "The fact that you've sunk this low, that you're so pathetic that you can't even commit suicide by yourself; you have to bring me into it, you have to bring Mokuba into it, because you're a narcissistic waste of space who can't handle the idea that no one will care when you're dead."

This had no effect.

Siegfried's face didn't twitch.

"You don't know, do you?" he mused thoughtfully. "You've truly managed to delude yourself. Impressive, but sad." Siegfried shook his head. "Tell me something, Seto: if you had to describe yourself in one word, what would that word be?"

"Bored. Is there a _point _hiding in this monologue somewhere?"

Siegfried chuckled. "Do you know the word _I _would choose?"

"Enlighten me," Seto rasped. His right eye was twitching spasmodically. He was starting to sweat. Shake. He blinked several times, tightened his grip, and when his arm gave a little spasm, Darren realized that _his _arms were starting to ache. What were they doing? What good were these damned things doing them right now? Were they delaying the inevitable? No. The man in front of them _wanted _to die. He was egging them on, practically _begging_ them to shoot.

All the same, he couldn't lower the gun in his hands, and he knew without thinking that it was the same for Seto; may as well tell him to rip out his right eye as lower his weapon.

"Gambler," Siegfried said with relish.

Darren blinked.

Seto twitched.

"You're a gambler, Seto," the pink-haired lunatic explained. "You've chosen your career, you've chosen your hobbies; every choice you make boils down to that one irrefutable truth: you exult in the rush. You _live _for that challenge; for that constant, looming, towering threat that makes the game worth playing. You could lose. You don't _want_ to lose—oh, no—but the thought that you _might _lose excites you. Doesn't it?"

"You have me confused with Motou, which would be insulting enough on a _good _day."

"See? Right now, you're hedging your bets. You're hoping to anger me by being flippant. You figure that I'm out for attention; that I'm looking for a specific reaction and that if I don't get it, I'll lose control and you'll have the advantage." His eyes twinkled. "You're also betting that the reaction I want..._isn't_ the one that you aregiving me."

"...You're enjoying this," Seto muttered. "You're having fun. This is a game to you."

"And it _isn't _one to you?" Siegfried asked, quirking an eyebrow. "You're going to have to be honest with me, Seto. I know you better than you think. You _live _for this. Tell me your blood isn't singing right now."

"Speak clearly for once in your fucking life."

"See, Mokuba? He's deflecting. You can tell, can't you?" Siegfried gave Mokuba a half-shake that elicited a panicked squeak. "You know your brother better than anyone. You can tell when he's lying, can't you? He's lying now. He heard me _perfectly _clearly."

"You've roped him into this charade more than enough already," Seto snapped, and Darren could hear something change in his voice. He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew that it couldn't be good. "Don't make it worse."

"He still hasn't answered me," Siegfried told Mokuba. "You see? I speak the truth, little Kaiba. Your esteemed brother has an addiction. He cannot help but put anything of value onto the table, just for the thrill of winning it back. And what if he loses? That, dear one, is the fun of it all."

"Shut your mouth. This smear campaign is just as useless as any other tactic you've ever tried. Are you done reveling in your own self-pity? I'd like Mokuba home before midnight if it's all the same to you."

Was it...desperation?

_"Anything _of value. Even his family. Even you, Mokuba. _Especially _you. Why else would he put you in the spotlight so much? Why else would he make it so painfully obvious that you are his weak spot? Why else would he be so lax in securing proper protection for you that you've been taken from him four times in the past three years? Hm? Think about it. Just think about how...many...times...he has let you come to danger. Why would he do that, unless it was to win you back? It serves a double purpose. Not only does it sate his addiction, but it ensures that you remain dependent upon him. The more he saves you, the more you cling to him. Do you see?"

"This is ridiculous."

But it wasn't. Darren suddenly realized that it wasn't ridiculous at all. Siegfried had finally found the right method of attack, and Seto was stumbling. His body was just as rigid as ever, his aim just as steady, but the conviction in his eyes was beginning to waver. His confidence was slipping. And Darren didn't have to look at Siegfried to realize that he knew it. Knew it and was reveling in it. To Siegfried von Schroeder...this was as close to heaven as he would ever reach.

"Well?" Siegfried prodded, and Mokuba moaned pitifully, shutting his eyes and shaking his head as if to deny the very existence of this madman. "You see it, don't you? You see the truth behind your brother's...ahem...selfless devotion to you."

"God_damn_ it," Seto hissed, and his voice cracked.

Darren thought that he should say something.

He _knew _that he should say something.

He opened his mouth to say something.

Something never came.

* * *

**4.  
**

* * *

The juggernaut's grip faltered as Tristan drove a knee straight up into his groin, and the split-second of freedom was all he needed to roll to the side and half-slide, half-crawl out of the line of fire. Scooting further away, he slammed into the wall with a harsh grunt that came out sounding much more like a curse than anything else.

Saruwatari was on his feet, but Joey was already going for him, leaping onto his back and wrapping one arm around his cannon-barrel neck. "I'd ask you to give me one good reason not to slice you open, but _I don't fucking want one!"_

It looked like some species of dance. As Saruwatari spun around and all but fell against the wall, Joey lost his chance out of sheer shock and adrenaline. His breath left him in a heave as the formerly helpless bodyguard-turned-kidnapper drove an elbow into his midriff.

Tristan spied the gun Detective McKinley had given him, lying prone and harmless on the floor.

It was all he could do to focus on it.

Focus...and grin like a fucking lunatic.

Memories of a time when he and Joey had been in situations like this almost every day surfaced from the back of his mind, and there was only the briefest of moments when he thought that they _shouldn't _feel good. Then the moment passed, and he flexed his fingers.

No time for doubts.

It was time to go back home.

* * *

**5.  
**

* * *

"Do you know what you should do, Seto?"

Seto didn't answer. It didn't look like he could drive a single word out from behind the folded steel of his clenched jaw. He looked like he _wanted _to speak; oh, he wanted to speak very badly. Fury held him in an oath of silence. Fury, and fear, and God only knew what other torrent of emotions.

"...Why...don't you...tell...me...?" the words finally tore their way out, as if defying the oath as soon as Darren even thought of it, as if Seto was hell-bent on proving any and every assumption about his character, whether vocalized or not, entirely wrong. Since his usual flippant anger hadn't gotten him anywhere, he was now down to fake politeness, with more than a hint of that same anger showing through in the fact that he wasn't at all interested in making it sound sincere.

Siegfried clearly didn't care. He beamed like a benevolent, fatherly teacher. "Come down here," he said. "You're quite tall, you know, and it must be so uncomfortable for the boy to have you looking down on him like that. Why not come to his level, at least for this final meeting, so that he can have a single memory of just what you look like from an...even point of view?"

This had nothing to do with Mokuba anymore, if it had ever had _anything _to do with him. Siegfried had played his final hand, the final step toward his own personal nirvana. This wasn't about Seto being level with his brother. Mokuba was perhaps the only equal Seto would ever acknowledge. This was about the indomitable, the unbreakable, the untouchable...

...Forced to his knees.

Darren wasn't sure which was more infuriating. The fact that this bastard had the gall to make such an order in the first place...or the fact that Seto had no choice but to follow it if he wanted any chance of this coming out his way.

Or the fact that Seto was slowly, achingly, following it.

Without a single word to the contrary.

If Mokuba hadn't looked terrified enough, watching his brother sink to his knees for likely the first time in his entire life was enough to crush any remaining will to fight the boy may have been nursing. His entire body seemed to sink along with his sibling. He looked like he was trying to shake his head again, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't find the strength. It just wasn't in him anymore.

"Now..." Siegfried purred. "Tell him the truth, Seto. Tell him that you have no idea how you're going to get him out of this one. Tell him that your luck has run out. Do you think he can't tell? That _I _can't tell? Tell him what you've known for several minutes now: you don't _have_ a way to get him out of this one. You can't think of one...because there _isn't _one."

Seto sank all the way down. He was almost sitting on his heels, but it seemed as though that would be the final straw, because he was shaking, straining with the Sisyphean effort of keeping himself from falling that far down. He pushed himself forward, and readjusted his grip on his weapon. He said nothing.

Siegfried didn't exhibit anger, or surprise, or even amusement at the silence. He seemed not only to have expected it, but had been counting on it. He said, "No? Well, that's fine. Change is gradual, after all. Let us try something more comfortable for you, shall we?"

The more Siegfried spoke, the more Darren was reminded of a doting, eccentric uncle imparting lessons upon a favored nephew. He couldn't understand how anyone—psychotic or not—could be so calm and collected, could be so cursedly comfortable, in a situation as grim, as cold, as blood-congealing and sadistic as this.

"Lie to him, Seto," Siegfried commanded, in that same sugary voice. "Lie to the boy, then. Tell him what he wants to hear, what you want to tell him. Lie to him and tell him that you'll get him out of this, that everything will be all right, that you just need a little while longer to...ahem...handle me. Go ahead, Seto. You know they're right there, on the tip of your silvered tongue. You know you want to say them. If you can't find the courage to let him die with the truth, that's fine. Let him die with comfort, then. Lie."

Seto's mouth opened.

Darren almost shut his eyes. He almost sighed. He almost snapped at Seto to keep his mouth shut. But he knew it wouldn't do any good. Nothing he said would get through to Seto right now; he was too entangled in his own desperation.

"M...Mokuba..." Seto whispered, looking directly into his brother's eyes. Mokuba couldn't have responded if he'd wanted to, but all the same Darren had a feeling that he didn't have the energy, didn't have the willpower, to give any kind of indication that he'd even heard.

Then the boy blinked, and Darren remembered that Mokuba had the same stubborn streak that so defined his guardian. He tolerated hasty assumptions no more than Seto did.

"Listen to me," Seto continued, his voice low and somber, shaky but still commanding absolute attention. "Listen to your big brother, Mokuba. Listen to me. Do you hear me? Are you listening?"

He seemed to be trying to bolster his conviction again; the repetition wasn't for Mokuba so much as for Seto himself. Nonetheless, Mokuba's eyes were riveted now. He still looked frightened out of his mind, and maybe it was all Darren's imagination, but he thought he saw some vestige of calm return to the boy's face. Some semblance of control.

"Don't listen to him," Seto said. "This isn't a lie. When have I ever lied to you? When have I ever looked you in the eye and lied to you?" Mokuba blinked again. "On the ride home from Gozaburo's funeral, when you asked me what happened, what did I tell you?"

Blink.

"I told you that I didn't kill him, but that I certainly drove him to do the deed himself. I didn't want to tell you that. You were barely seven years old. But I promised myself, I promised you, at our _mother's _funeral that I would never lie to you. That you would always hear the truth from me, and nothing less. This...is _not_...a lie. Do you hear me, Mokuba?"

Blink. Spasm.

"I'm getting you out of this. You _will _get out of this. I swear it to you. On my life. On my life and on the vow that I gave to our mother on her deathbed, I _will _get you home. We're going to walk out of here together, we're going to go home, and you're going to get some sleep. I'll stay with you until you do. You can sleep in my bedroom if you like. I'll put on your favorite music and you can sleep in my bedroom. How does that sound?"

Blink.

Mokuba was crying full-force again, and Darren spied a trickle of tears coming down Seto's face now, too. He seemed not to notice them. He was too focused. He couldn't afford to break what limited contact he had with his brother.

He was beginning to realize, Darren thought, that this might be the last time they spoke to each other. That unless he pulled a miracle out of that semi-automatic, there would never be another hug. Another smile. Another ruffling of black hair. That unless he performed the impossible, there would be no more after-school trips to that hole-in-the-wall ice cream parlor that only stayed in business because Mokuba happened to like it.

"...I love you, Mokuba," Seto said. His cobalt eyes were glistening. "You mean more to me than anyone or anything else on this earth. I will _not _let this happen to you. Do you hear me? I love you, and I have _never _been prouder of you than I am today. Are you listening to me?"

His voice was losing what remaining composure it had.

Mokuba blinked again. It was the only thing he could do.

The only way he could respond.

Seto clung to it like a lifeline in a hurricane. "I would never gamble with your safety. Ever. I would _never_ put you through this willingly. I would give anything to keep you from this. I swear it." He turned his eyes back to Siegfried. "You want to see me broken. That's your angle. Do you want my company? Take it. Do you want to see it destroyed? I'll run it into the ground myself. Do you want to see me dirt-poor and clawing out a living? I'll give every cent I have to anyone who wants it. I'll live on meat scraps and dirt if that's what you're looking for. I'll be a fry cook, I'll be a shoe salesman, I'll be a paper boy if that's what you're after. I'll starve in an alley behind a grocery store. Strip away anything you want. Break me any way you feel like, but damn it to hell, leave him alone. He's been through enough."

Begging.

He was down to begging.

Goddamn it.

And Siegfried was drinking it in like it was nectar from a flower growing in Eden itself. He was intoxicated. No two ways about it, he was drunk on this. _This _was what he wanted. And the ultimate payoff would come when he pulled the trigger, denying his true target any chance of clawing his way up again.

He was going to do it.

He was going to fire.

And Mokuba was going to—

"I'm surprised that you didn't decorate this place a little better for such a grand event," Darren spouted out before he had any clue what he was even thinking. "Is it for the irony? Do you want to see the great Seto Kaiba finally beaten and broken in a place like this? So far from the luxury he's accustomed to? Why not a warehouse, then? Why not some repossessed meth lab? Hell, why not the dump? _That _would be the ultimate metaphor, wouldn't it?"

What the hell was he doing?

Why the holy _fuck _was he egging the bastard on?

"Why so few people? Why not make a fully public spectacle of it?" he continued. "You seem to already know how this is going to end, so clearly you're not afraid to die. Or if you are, for some fucked-out reason you've decided that this is worth the cost. So what's this about? Why not have more spectators? Why not show everyone in the whole damned city if it's so important to you?"

Siegfried was watching him now. Cold, dead eyes were locked on him.

"Why...indeed?" Siegfried said slowly, grin widening further.

Whatever that meant, Darren knew it couldn't be good. The distraction may or may not be working, but the fact that Siegfried was just as cool and confident as ever, in spite of the intrusion upon his private puppet show, was unnerving.

It didn't feel right.

_Nothing _about this situation felt right.

* * *

**6.  
**

* * *

Think.

Move. Act. _Do._

He was frozen. He couldn't do anything. His muscles weren't listening to him, his mind wasn't listening to him, he couldn't...he just...! No. He'd already fallen into this trap before; he wasn't going to fall again.

He was on his knees. The end was nearing. The proverbial moment of truth. Seto did not engage in delusion, and he knew he had almost no time left. This was it. Siegfried's patience was ending; he could see it in the man's face. He'd gotten what he wanted out of the game, and now it was time for the punchline.

What was Seto going to do?

Inevitably a part of him began to think about what would happen if he failed. What he would do if he couldn't end this night on _his_ terms. It wasn't more than a handful of seconds before he stopped that line of thought in its tracks, because it didn't _matter _what happened if he failed.

The sociopath had said it: if Seto failed, the world would end.

That was all.

Mokuba was still crying. It didn't look like he was waiting anymore. He wasn't waiting for anything; not the end, not salvation, not a damned thing. Everything had gone out of his eyes except endless, unfathomable dread.

The same dread that had seized hold of Seto's mind.

It was like looking into a mirror. He was a child again, lost and afraid, and he didn't even know what he was doing anymore. Where he was. He couldn't focus. Who was that man? What was he doin—why was he holding a...

_Enough!_

Damn it, enough!

"So is this what you're going to do?" the detective snapped. "Turn everything we say into some half-cocked psychotic one-liner? Apparently this _is _fun to you. Your own private play. How many acts are left? Hm? When's the grand finale?"

"Right now, if you'd prefer."

No. No no no. God no.

"Don't be an idiot," said the detective, sneering. "You know damn well you're not done yet. This is far too entertaining, and you haven't broken either of them yet. Isn't that what this is about? Breaking the enemy? You haven't even broken your hostage yet."

Seto didn't think that was true. He wanted to believe that it was true, he wanted to believe it so much that his mind and heart felt like they were both on fire, but he knew his brother better than the detective did, knew him better than anyone else, and looking into Mokuba's eyes right now he couldn't describe the boy as anything _but _broken.

And even if the detective _was_ right...he was breaking.

Quickly.

Too quickly.

He wasn't going to be able to—

_ENOUGH!_

He couldn't breathe.

He couldn't keep his eyes from his brother. He couldn't keep his mind on anything except the fact that he'd failed. This was his fault. He had done this, to himself, to the detective, to his baby brother. To the brave, stupid young men in the middle of the mansion fighting for their lives while he sat here on his heels, trying to hold together the withered remains of his self-control with a mind that was hell-bent on betraying him.

Not that he was surprised. He'd betrayed Mokuba. Why _shouldn't _he betray himself?

_You're letting yourself fall into the trap he's set for you. You're letting a pathetic copycat get the better of you. Is this the man you are? Is this what you've let yourself become? After Crawford, after Ishtar, after...after Noa...after protecting him from so many threats, is _this _your undoing? _This_ goddamned lunatic?_

_ ...No. _

His eyes snapped wide.

Something clicked.

It felt like...like...

The answer.

The most ironic part, the _sweetest _part of it all, was that the answer had come from Siegfried von Schroeder himself. The idiot just didn't know it. For the love of all that was holy, the bastard didn't know it. Suddenly Seto was shaking from a sudden rush of adrenaline. Suddenly the terror was gone, the despair was gone, the hopelessness was gone, burned to cinders by a blaze of hope.

Stupid, incredible, impossible hope.

_You are quite the machine. When a task must be completed, there is nothing except that task._

Seto thought of a man he'd thought long-buried in the recesses of his memories. Thought of a man who wore blood-colored suits and had eyes so perfectly frozen that they made the sun shiver. He thought of a man who would have stepped into this room without a single care, who would have seen Siegfried von Schroeder dead long before ever coming to this point because if there was one singular thing _no one _could do to that man, it was get the jump on him.

Seto thought of the only person who had ever defeated that man.

And as he sloughed off any semblance of emotion, as he shed hope and fear and love and hate, as he threw off the shroud of confusion and the blindfolding apprehension, as he finally remembered what it was to be a Kaiba, he thanked that man.

In that moment, and that moment only, he would have loved that man, if he'd had the time or energy to love anything.

But he didn't.

He had an objective to complete.

* * *

**7.  
**

* * *

If anyone had asked him how the hell they'd managed to climb the stairs, Joey wouldn't have been able to answer. He couldn't remember a damned thing about the time that had passed since entering the mansion, and truth be told didn't really _want _to remember any of it.

If he'd been in any kind of position to be contemplative about the whole thing, he would have said that he was having way too much fun to remember why he was here. If he'd remembered Mokuba—his new friend, the sole shining example of the fact that he and Seto Kaiba might not be all that different after all (not that he would have ever admitted that out loud)—he would have been put in the kind of mood that Kaiba was in, and he would have forgotten his promise to let Kaiba handle this. If he'd remembered Mokuba, Joey would have killed Adachi Saruwatari himself, with his bare goddamn hands.

But he didn't remember Mokuba anymore.

He was caught in the rush.

Literally. He was practically flying down the hallway on he second floor of the von Schroeder mansion, a knife still miraculously clutched in his left fist. He wasn't entirely sure why he still held it; he'd botched the kill, which was half the reason he was running at all. He'd never been all that comfortable with weapons to begin with. He tended to prefer to use his fists; there was no way for him to drop his fists.

Tristan came rushing up beside him. They weren't even seeing their surroundings anymore. There was no time to see, no time to gauge, no time to think, no time to plan. There was only the hunt, and the prey thought he was the one hunting.

On impulse, Joey glanced back over his shoulder. Saruwatari was barreling toward them with all the grace of a newly tranquilized rhinoceros, and the blond lurched back and launched the combat knife at him. He hadn't been aiming; a part of his mind still cursorily aware of the fact that the motherfucker was _huge _had simply decided that tossing the thing away in the direction _of _the threat was the right way to go.

The blade sliced through a sleeve of Saruwatari's jacket, but did nothing else of value aside from clutter to the floor.

Joey turned back and forgot the blade had ever existed.

"This should _not _be fun!" Tristan called out.

Joey rounded a corner and laughed. "Fuck _yes, _it should!"

Somewhat surprisingly, Saruwatari said nothing.

Instead, he made a flying grab for Joey's jacket. The blond snapped to a stop, but whirled around, sliding out the garment as easily as if he'd been planning for it. He would be surprised later that he'd actually managed to pull off such a stunt—something Hirutani had struggled to teach him back when he'd been too stupid to understand the importance of keeping out of an opponent's grip—but not then.

He lunged for the first door he could find, threw it open, and tossed himself inside.

A figure stood in the room, next to a desk. The figure stiffened, turned, and Joey thought he saw a tired, almost sad look on the figure's face before its hand lifted a pistol and aimed straight at him. It didn't look like he'd been lying in wait, but it also didn't look like he was surprised.

A gruff voice rang out with a kind of sincerity that felt...wrong.

"...I'm sorry."

* * *

**8.  
**

* * *

A lifetime of running on instinct was all that saved Joey Wheeler's life.

And a lifetime of following Joey's lead without question was all that saved Tristan Taylor's.

The blond dropped, and Tristan dropped with him.

The blast of gunfire made an earthquake in the hall, and Adachi Saruwatari provided the aftershock as he roared and fell into the opposite wall, clutching a ruined shoulder. Joey caught a fleeting glimpse of the gunman's face, and couldn't tell if he was disappointed or not.

"You were supposed to shoot _them, _you stupid _fucking _doormat!"

The man looked like he wanted to smile.

* * *

**9.  
**

* * *

Darren saw it, but he wasn't sure what it was he saw.

Seto's lips were moving, but he wasn't speaking to Siegfried. Somehow, he knew. Seto wasn't speaking to anyone, even himself. Darren frowned, suddenly fixated on his friend's face. His mind told him, screamed at him, that he had to focus on his job, that he had to watch for a chance...but he couldn't turn away once he looked.

A war was waging on Seto Kaiba's face.

He looked at once angry, frightened, sad, and...

Crazy.

Seto looked ready to break. He looked like a man on the edge of everything. His eyes were haunted, his face gaunt, and his body—usually so well under control, like an impeccably oiled machine—shook and twitched as if it were malfunctioning.

He wasn't looking at Siegfried anymore.

And even though his eyes were facing Mokuba, Darren thought that Seto didn't see _him,_ either. Darren wondered if Seto could see anything at all. And he realized...not anymore. This was it. It was done. Seto had snapped.

But then...

It was as sudden as a lightning flash. Unable to keep the machine metaphor out of his head, Darren thought of a switch. It was an old metaphor, a tired metaphor, but he understood now—where he never had—just how apt it was in his young friend's case.

A switch had been thrown.

The fear was gone. The sorrow was gone. The anger was gone.

Seto himself was gone.

And all that was left...was a Kaiba.

The heir Kaiba Gozaburo had built readjusted its aim, and Darren saw what it planned. And he thought, _No. Oh, Jesus, no. Don't, Seto. The chance is too high. His windpipe, Seto! It won't hit! You can't hope for a shot like that! Dear God, man, you can't!_

Darren spun, not knowing what he would do, only knowing that he had to find a better shot, had to do it now, before Seto made the worst mistake of his life. His eyes searched desperately, futilely. He commanded, begged, prayed that he would find...

...But there was nothing. He couldn't. Not with any more accuracy than Seto could. Not without alerting Siegfried again. Crushing realization hit him, and he knew...this was the only chance they had.

Siegfried began to chuckle again. "Ah...there it is. You've decided, haven't you, Seto?"

Seto did not hear, and Kaiba did not answer.

"Well, then?" Siegfried taunted, tightening his grip on his gun and Mokuba. "Take it, old friend. Do it. Let us find out what happens together, shall we?"

There was a beat of silence, a bare quarter-note, before Darren heard the telltale crash of gunfire.

It took him a second to realize it hadn't come from either Kaiba's gun _or_ Siegfried's. It had come from directly above their heads, like the voice of a metal god. Darren had only a moment to think, _Joey_, before the end.

The end of everything.

Honestly surprised for the first time, Siegfried von Schroeder's eyes widened, and he snapped his eyes to the side. Barely. Looked up at one of the four cameras in each corner of the ceiling. The movement was sudden and instinctive. Darren would have time to think later that _that_ was what the man had been after. That those cameras, recording the entire sequence of events, had been his true motive. And that was why he looked.

That was why he made his only mistake.

Siegfried quickly realized what he had done, and spun back to face his rival. Mokuba grunted as he was shaken roughly by the movement. It was too quick to see, too quick to understand. Nothing...and everything.

Seto's eyes were as blank as death.

Kaiba's lips curled.

Siegfried's eyes were wide, feral, and for once...finally—

_CRACK!_

* * *

**END.  
**

* * *

**_The passage that opens scene 3 of this chapter comes from verses 1 through 3 of Genesis, chapter 22, quoted from the Holman Christian Standard Bible. The sacrifice of Isaac is the hallmark event that would offend Seto and drive him away from religion in general. Say what you want about the significance about that event; Seto would not tolerate such behavior from a father, whether you're talking about Abraham or God. In his mind, there is no excuse for making such an order, nor for following it._**

**_The number of times Mokuba has been abducted is a difficult thing to figure, simply because the events of the Noa storyline would never be believed by the general public; such events are entirely outside of the realm of possibility. Also, due to the extremely personal nature of the situation, I'm generally of the opinion that that one, in particular, would be buried in the recesses of Seto's memory. Buried and (mostly) forgotten._**

**_At least, that's the hope._**


	18. The Albatross

**_Before we get started, an announcement if you will indulge me:_**

**_I have recently set up a blog with Blogger, which I'm calling, "In Cold Blood." This blog is now set up as my homepage on my profile; the address is as follows: icedblood1986 (dot) blogspot (dot) com. Here I will be posting updates to any project I've written—or any other project, period—as they're posted. This includes updates to a pair of websites known as "Wikinut" and "Triond." These sites are pay-to-post, and I will earn a percentage of ad revenue generated by each page I generate for them. Triond acts as a hub, and is connected to a site called Authspot, which has a fanfiction section._**

**_This means that in order to finally earn some money with this passion of mine, I will be posting all new fanfiction projects through Triond. I know that this is an inconvenience for you, and I apologize, but I hope you understand that I am trying to make more out of this than a hobby. I hope to help my family and myself with my writing. I'm transferring to a university to pursue a teaching degree, and I need all the help I can get. So keep an eye out on my new blog, if such is your inclination. I promise that things won't be too infuriating. It would help me out a lot if you guys could look at what I have posted already, and of course leave feedback if you wish. Any and every response to my work is greatly appreciated and encouraged._**

**_If any of you are worried that I'm "selling out" for the sake of money, I assure you that this is not the case. I will be putting just as much work and dedication to any project I post through Triond or Wikinut as I do to the projects I have here. One of them includes a "filler arc" for this story, a parallel storyline that won't have any overarching effects on the story as a whole, but will bring to light some rather entertaining insights into the characters. I call it "Lightbringer," and I will begin posting it alongside my updates here as soon as we finish this arc. It's coming up on the end, folks._**

**_And by the way, any and every project I have posted up here will not be going anywhere. I'll continue to update them here. The only things you'll see on Triond or Wikinut are new projects._**

**_To anyone who decides to help me earn a few extra bucks, thank you from the bottom of my heart. You're amazing._**

**_There. Now that that's done, welcome to, "The Albatross."_**

* * *

**1.**

* * *

_October 29, 2007_

* * *

"I dunno what to think o' that guy," Joey said. His voice had dropped all the way into a complete, almost irrevocable monotone. His eyes still had a haunted look, and Téa could still tell that he didn't see her, didn't see Yugi. "His name's...Ivan, I think. He was Schroeder's butler or some stupid shit like that. I mean, he was one o' _them, _right? I heard from the detective, he's the one 'at dressed Mokuba in pajamas and set 'im up in a bedroom. Sick fuck. He made fuckin' _dinner _for them. Right before Kaiba 'n us all showed up, he was doing _dishes."_

"He was fully on-board with the plan," Tristan put in, as it seemed like Joey was ready to destroy something—possibly his own jaw, from the way he was clenching his teeth. "He helped, he stood back and watched, he didn't lift a finger to stop any of it. But when he shot Saruwatari...I mean, hell, I doubt _anybody _liked that son of a bitch, but still. He looked _happy. _Like he'd done good. He didn't shoot again. He didn't point it at either o' us to get the job done. It's like he'd only signed up for one bullet and wasn't gonna put in overtime."

"He had a computer system in there," Joey muttered. "Turns out Schroeder was recordin' the whole damn thing. From four different angles. And he had it all uploadin' online. We found out later, Schroeder sent a link out to...fuck, just about everybody, so the whole fuckin' city could watch Mokuba's head explode."

"There wasn't any sound, though," Yugi put in finally. "I got the link. I watched the video for a while. I couldn't tell what it was at first. It looked fake. Von Schroeder and Mokuba were sitting at a little table. There was food on the table, like Joey said. Mokuba wasn't eating."

"We looked through the video, saw the shot," Tristan said. "None of the cameras really got a good look at Kaiba's face, but Detective McKinley mentioned later that he looked...like two people. What'd he say? He said...uh..."

"His mouth was smirking, but his eyes looked like glass," Joey said slowly. He looked up as though he had no idea what had prompted that. Tristan looked oddly at him. "That's...that's how he said it looked. The...the detective, he said...he said it was like he had two faces. He said that _Seto _looked like he was in a coma, but _Kaiba _looked cocky. But he said it was fake. It wasn't _real _confidence, y'know? It was...fuck, what was the word he used...? Damn it."

"Bravado?" Yugi suggested.

"Yeah. Bravado. That's it."

Tristan was nodding as if that made perfect sense. "Yeah. Exactly. But I mean, you couldn'a gotten a cleaner shot if you'd prayed for it, hand to God. Right through, absolute perfection. And it _had_ to be, y'know? Anything less 'n Mokuba would'a been...would'a been...well. If Kaiba hadn't hit Schroeder where he did," Tristan gestured around his neck in a vague gesture, "reflex would'a let him shoot, and it all would've been over. But Kaiba hit 'im, dead on. What'd Detective McKinley call it? The Dead Man's Switch?"

Joey nodded. "Impossible shot. Seriously. But he did it."

"He had no choice," Yugi murmured solemnly. "Anything less, and his life would have been over, same as Mokuba's."

"But y'know..." Joey said, "...for a while, there...it looked like it was gonna end anyway."

* * *

**2.**

* * *

_September 9, 2006_

* * *

The world came back.

It wasn't a rush; it wasn't a procession of events that came back in logical succession. He didn't become aware of his surroundings gradually. He didn't have time to process each individual event as it came through; he didn't have time to gauge what happened.

It came back at once.

Everything slammed into him instantaneously.

It was like the switch that he'd thrown suddenly snapped back into the ready position, and the part of his mind labeled, "Human," kicked back on. The distance was gone. The coldness was gone.

And with it went its protection.

Seto Kaiba stared, suddenly _aware_, and felt his muscles die.

The damage he had set out to do was done. Where once there had been a throat beneath Siegfried von Schroeder's chin there was a gaping hole, straight through to his spine. Death had occurred instantly; no suffering, no pain, no fanfare (and most importantly), no reflex. He was just gone. The enemy was gone.

But now Seto watched, as if his memory were a projector and he were a simple observer, as he forced the sequence of events that had led to that conclusion to play out. He watched as Siegfried's head snapped to the side as his attention was drawn away from his prey, by a sound that Seto distantly remembered was gunfire; a shot rang from high above them all, muffled and distant but unmistakable, and now that Seto actually heard it, he wondered distantly who had fired that gun.

He watched as the opportunity presented itself. He watched as the obstacle of Siegfried's windpipe, that would have thrown off his shot and had the potential to ruin it, shifted to the side. This was where instinct had run its course, and thought of any sort had ceased. He'd squeezed the trigger, and the flight began.

And the end began.

A blur of black flew into his vision, right in the course of the bullet's flight, and he hadn't known at the time what it was.

But now he knew _who _it was.

The present returned to him, and he watched as Siegfried von Schroeder seemed to fold in upon himself, no longer a name or a face but just a body. Just a heap of dead flesh, dead muscles, dead bones, dead threats. No longer worthy of even a name, except, "corpse."

And Seto watched as the blur of black...as Mokuba went down with the nameless hulk. And Seto watched the blood, the bright crimson lifeline, drip from Mokuba's hair. Seto watched as the world ended. Mokuba didn't move. Mokuba wasn't moving.

Oh, God, Mokuba, get up…get up…no, no, _please_ get up!

Seto's lips moved, but the sound never reached even his own ears. He kept repeating that same, emphatic refusal: _No, no, no, no,_ as if he thought perhaps this mantra would reverse everything, as if saying it enough times would make time screech to a stop and go backward. No…no, no, _no…_

God, please, no…

He felt numb. His arms were heavy. The damning instrument in his hands, the article of his undoing, strained against his muscles with the weight of the earth. His left hand gave way first, and his right arm dropped like a lever to his side.

He felt numb.

No.

No, no.

His eyes moved as if automated and he watched, dully, as a figure rushed into the room. Did he know the figure? He thought he must. But he couldn't put a name to it, to the lean, tall frame and blond hair, to the brown eyes and the harsh breath and the way the figure seemed to be at once exhausted and seizing with energy.

He could not name the second figure with him, with hair almost the same color as Seto's own but cropped short; he could not name the sharp profile, the slightly thinner, shorter frame, the clenching and unclenching hands. He knew them both, but he did not know them.

Seto did not know the third…the third who came up from just beside him, who rushed to the body (bodies) and knelt down in a slide for the final two feet. He did not know the hand that reached out and grabbed the gun that the body had been holding and set it aside.

He knew him, but he did not know him.

God, no.

No, this wasn't happening.

It couldn't happen.

No…no, no.

Mother, please. Make it leave. Make the nightmare leave.

Mother…Mother, oh, _please_ make it go.

_No._

He watched as the three unknowns looked at him. The two standing looked frightened and confused, unsure of what they should be doing, unsure of what was happening, unsure of him, as if they did not know who _he_ was, either.

Mother.

The third, the one kneeling before the corpse (corpses) was just as frightened, but seemed more aware. He seemed to understand, he seemed to know. The third knew, and the third could tell.

Father.

No.

No, no, no…

The third shouted to the other two, and they jumped. The brunette one, the second, he knelt down and pried the larger away from the smaller, the enemy from the victim, the demon from the martyr. The blond—the first—began to walk toward Seto. The first was slow, and was speaking. But Seto could not hear.

The third lifted the smaller body into his arms. The third stared down, and spoke. And there was no answer. The third shook the body, and there was no answer.

Mother.

No.

_Please._

The third looked at him, and there was no answer.

No.

The third began to walk forward, and he watched. He watched, riveted, unable to tear his eyes away. He wanted to turn, to run, to hide—Mother, please—but he could not move. The weight from his right hand (the weight of the earth) left him, and he stared. The third was closer now, the third was upon him now, and he stared.

The third (Father) said something.

He did not hear.

But now…now he understood. Yes. Yes, this was right.

The third began to kneel down, and it was right. Yes, this was proper and this was right, and he could not run. He would not run. This was his. Yes. The third understood, and now _he_ understood.

This was his burden, this was his Albatross, and about his neck would it hang.

This was his hell, and about his neck would it burn.

The third placed the body, the small body (so pitifully small), into his arms, and he accepted. Yes. This was how it should be. This was what should happen. This was right. This is right…Mother, isn't this right? Look, Mother. Look at how I have failed.

Yes.

He looked down. He saw the Albatross, so small and cold, so tiny, and he nodded. Yes. He could see unseeing eyes, storm clouds shot with amethyst, so like Mother's but darker, and…and hollow.

The Albatross was hollow.

Hair…black, like Mother's. Made slick with red. Marred, _defiled_ with red. Yes. This was his burden. Red dripped onto his clothing, marred _him_ with red, and yes. That was right. That was proper. That was how it should be.

Look, Mother.

Look.

Look at how I die.

He held the Albatross, red and pitiful, and he heard. He looked up, blinking confusedly, and he tried to understand. Was it Mother? Was Mother speaking to him? Was Mother condemning him? She should. Yes, she should.

Yes.

It was not Mother. This voice was not Mother's. This voice was low, low and deep and desperate. Seto looked up, further up. The third remained before him, and the third was shaking him. Shaking. Shouting. Angry.

Father is angry.

No. He would not hear.

He would not listen.

No, not now. Now, he must listen for Mother. Mother would come soon, to tell him he had failed. He would not listen to Father. No, he could not. Never.

Never again.

He was shaken again, and his neck snapped backward, and pain shot through his spine. And he gasped, staring, and his grip tightened. He heard something. He could hear. And he could…he could…

Understand.

"…Alive!"

What?

What is…what did…who…?

"For the love of God, man, he's _alive!"_

* * *

**3.**

* * *

It took a small eternity.

The world did not come back into full focus immediately, but left him in a haze, left him dazed and only able to see one thing clearly. He stared, not understanding, as Siegfried von Schroeder crumpled to the ground without a single sound. He died with a look of shocked, betrayed anger on his face.

He died without his victory.

Suddenly remembering what that victory _was_, Darren McKinley shot forward, holstering his weapon only after making the attempt at least three times, and he dropped to his knees and skidded across the floor. So focused, he did not notice as Joey Wheeler and Tristan Taylor rushed into the room.

"Oh, _God…"_ Tristan whispered, but Darren barely heard him, only recognized the voice enough to attribute the name to it but not the face. He grasped Siegfried's weapon as quickly as he dared and nearly pitched it over his shoulder before deciding to simply set it aside.

He leaned down.

He checked, dread adding ten tons to each arm, and hoped to God that…

"...He's alive," Darren declared, looking up at the pair standing in front of him. "Mokuba's alive. He's okay." Immediately after saying that, he realized how stupid the statement was, but he disregarded it.

"Oh-thank-Christ," Joey said in one heavy breath, hanging his head. "We…we were…back there an' found this…this…"

"There'll be time for that later!" Darren snapped. "We need to…"

He stopped. He suddenly remembered.

Seto…

"Oh,_ shit._"

Following the detective's gaze, Joey's and Tristan's eyes went wide as they saw the CEO of Kaiba-Corp. He was still on his knees, gun still clutched in his right hand, which had fallen limply at his side.

His eyes held the cold, distant terror of a man looking straight into hell.

"H-Holy…" Joey breathed.

The shields were down. The impeccable, untouchable armor was gone. Seto no longer had the presence of mind to hold up the façade he had been straining so mightily to maintain since stepping foot into the von Schroeder mansion. And without that façade, they saw him for what he was:

A frightened child.

No…not just frightened.

A child touched by death.

"Help me get this son of a whore off of him!" Darren suddenly shouted, and they both flinched violently. "_Move_, you idiot! Quickly!"

"H-Huh?"

Darren felt an urge to smack the blond, but ignored it. That wasn't fair. "Joey, _think_ for a second! Don't you see what he's thinking? _Look_ at him, for the love of God! He still has a gun in his hand! Now help me before he uses it!"

Joey turned. "He...he..."

"He's in goddamn shock!" Darren snarled. "He's not in his right mind, and I'm pretty damn sure from here, Mokuba doesn't look _alive_ right now! Go get that _damn_ thing away from him! Tristan, you help me with _this."_

Joey nodded, clearly shaken, and began to head toward Seto. He was slow, methodical, with a confused and frightened expression on his face. "Hey, uh...Kaiba," he said, chuckling nervously. "Don't shoot me, huh? That wouldn't be good. No good for nobody, y'know? Might be a...good idea, y'know...if you, ah...dropped that, uh...that gun, there. Yeah? Don't need it no more. Kid's okay, now, right? Ain't gotta..."

He continued in this vein, keeping his approach slow and easy. Darren nodded, grateful to see that Joey understood that to excite Seto right now with quick movement, loud speech, or both, would be a horrendously bad idea.

Siegfried was heavier than he looked. It took Tristan a moment to peel him away. He kept his eyes alternating between his task and Joey's. He breathed deeply, and when he finally managed to help the detective untangle Siegfried from Mokuba, he tossed the body unceremoniously aside. Darren lifted Mokuba from the floor, and bit his lip when he saw that the boy was still crying, but unaware of anything. Trapped in terror, he saw nothing. His gray-violet eyes were blank. Blood trickled down from one corner of his mouth and Siegfried's own blood coated the back of his head.

He'd wet himself.

"It's okay, Mokuba..." Darren whispered, even though he knew the boy wouldn't hear him. "You'll be okay. He saved you, kiddo. Your brother saved you. Your stupid, reckless, hopelessly brilliant brother saved you. You're gonna be all right."

He walked over to Seto. Joey had managed to coax the young executive to give up his weapon, and when Darren held Mokuba out to him, Seto took the burden without speaking. Without thinking. Seto stared down but, just like his brother, didn't comprehend.

"He's alive, Seto!" Darren nearly screamed after a moment of choking silence. "You did it! You fucking _did _it, Seto, he's okay! He's alive!" But Seto still didn't seem to hear him. His lips were moving, but no sound came from them. Darren gripped Seto's shoulder and shook him.

No response.

"Seto!" Darren shouted, and shook him again, hard. "He's alive, Seto! He's okay!" Seto finally looked up, and the faintest beginning of understanding was sparking in his eyes.

"For the love of God, man, he's _alive!"_

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Alive.

He's alive.

That was what (Father) Darren was saying. Seto blinked, bent his concentration, and looked down. Mokuba was shaking. His breath was halting, almost sobs, but it was there. His eyes were unseeing but not empty. He…he _was._

Alive.

His brother was alive.

"Mokuba…" he whispered, and he pulled the boy up into a hug. Mokuba was limp, unresponsive, but by _God,_ he was alive. "Mokuba…my Mokuba…"

There was just enough cognitive function going on in his head now for Seto to realize that his mind was clouded. He could barely think. The only thought that came in full-force was that Mokuba was alive. Everything else was hazy, distant, and seemed not to matter. Seto decided that was fine.

That was just fine.

Enough of him had come back that he realized…he still had a job to do. He still had a purpose. Siegfried had been wrong. The world had not ended. The world moved on. And he could move with it.

He still had a reason to live.

Ignoring the blood, Seto stroked his brother's hair, cradling him like a newborn. "Mokuba…it's okay, now…he's gone. You're safe. You're safe now. I've got you, baby…I'm here."

He glanced fleetingly up at Darren, a spasmodic tic, and saw relief there. He looked further back, at Joey and Tristan, and saw confused fear. It didn't matter. Seto turned his gaze downward again, and blocked them out. "Niisama's here, little one…" he whispered, tightening his hold on his tiny sibling. "I'm right here…you're safe now. You're safe."

"…N-Nii…sama…?"

Seto nearly cried. He pulled back and looked down at Mokuba's face. Focus was just beginning to come back to the boy's eyes, and he blinked owlishly as he stared. As they finally recognized just what they were seeing, those eyes went wide. "Niisama...?" Mokuba said again, unsure. He reached up, slowly, as if in a dream, and linked his arms around his brother's neck; the strength of his grip belied his sluggishness and betrayed his fear.

Seto stroked back his hair again. "You're safe, Mokie…you're safe. I've got you…I've got you…"

The ordeal finally over, Mokuba Kaiba's admirable self-control broke, and the floodgates opened. The shields not only dropped but shattered, and all the fear, all the despair, all the anger and hopelessness and pain, came out in long, hiccupping sobs.

Seto continued to hold him, and silently let his own tears fall.

"It's okay now, baby...you're safe. Go ahead and cry. You're safe."

* * *

**END.**


	19. Raison d'être

_**This is, by far, the most infuriating chapter in this entire work. I have been working and reworking it for so long now, I don't want to think about it anymore. The initial idea, which is why the previous chapter is called "Aftershock I," was to have this particular section split into two chapters.**_

_** Upon further consideration, I realized that it made more sense to combine the two of them. This chapter marks the end of the "Shot in the Dark" storyline, and thus the first major arc of this story. It will continue with other plots and sections, but this is a major milestone.**_

_** The first path has been completed. But we all know that there are many other roads to take. Roads paved with intentions of every sort.**_

* * *

**1.  
**

* * *

He had seen it once.

The first time Mokuba had come to the Turtle Game Shop for a visit, and he'd given his brother a goodbye hug and an, "I love you," Joey had seen this same phenomenon, but he hadn't thought much of it then; only as an example of Mokuba bringing out Seto Kaiba's apparent humanity. But now he saw more in it...and it frightened him.

As soon as his brother was back in his arms, there was a transformation. The limp, unresponsive muscles; the unthinking, thousand-yard stare; suddenly it was gone. Seto Kaiba was, in that instant, himself again. He began to speak, he began to move. Joey bit his lip as he listened, feeling like nothing so much as a trespasser.

"...It's okay, baby…" Seto whispered, stroking his brother's hair. "You're safe. Go ahead and cry. You're safe."

It suddenly felt like nothing had happened. Like Siegfried had done no worse than hide the boy away for a while in a three-man game of hide and seek. Like the gun in Joey's hand had never been fired. Seto was no longer a frightened child; he was no longer the pawn in Siegfried von Schroeder's game.

He was a father again.

"It's okay, little one...it's okay."

Joey stumbled backward, and drew in a shuddering breath. He turned to see Tristan and Darren both watching him. He cleared his throat, wiped his face, and sighed. He grinned, even though he didn't really want to. "Well...here's hopin' _that's_ over...huh?"

"We can hope," Darren agreed, sighing himself, "but we should get Mokuba to a hospital. You don't just pop back from a fright like that. I need to call this in, get everything straightened up with my captain. The last thing we need is for Seto to be branded a murderer."

"Sick part is, that'll prob'ly still happen, fuck-all to whatever _we _do," Tristan said. "The whole thing was bein' broadcast online." He gestured to the cameras on the ceiling. "Caught everything, right up to when Kaiba took 'im down. I don't know how many people saw it, but I'm betting plenty."

Darren frowned. "I'm _almost _surprised," he said bitterly, and glanced over at Siegfried's body. "Sick son of a _bitch_...well, never mind. He doesn't matter anymore. C'mon. Let's get them out of here and checked out. You two help them; I'll call for an ambulance."

Joey nodded. "Gotcha."

Tristan headed over to the front door and opened it. "Uh...Detective?"

"What?"

"I, uh...guess I was right. A, uh...at least a few people saw that video."

"What are you talking about?"

The brunette glanced back and chuckled nervously. "Looks like about fifty of 'em are out here."

"..._Fuck__."_

* * *

**2.  
**

* * *

Kevin Halling was a big man, tall and stocky. His sandy brown hair was cut at his collar. His clothing was somewhat crumpled, suggesting that he'd been in bed before being called out, but his dark green eyes were sharp and keen.

He was Darren McKinley's partner, and he was standing in front of the crowd on Siegfried von Schroeder's lawn. He stepped forward, onto the porch, and looked ready to kill something. Darren was surprised the entire throng wasn't rushing forward and throwing questions at him like so much rotten fruit, but as he looked around at the sea of faces, he realized that these were the _true _Kaiba devotees. They looked pale, scared, and solemn.

"I don't think I need to ask how you ended up here," Darren said as he stepped out of the doorway.

"Katie," Kevin rumbled. "Saw that video. She said she might've expected you to be there. If Kaiba was gonna call anybody in on this one, it'd be you. I'd bitch you out for not calling me, but from the way she told me, sounds like a delicate operation went on in there. Less people crowding that nutjob the better, huh?"

"I think if you'd been with us," Darren said, "he'd have felt threatened. The only reason we made it out of there was because he thought he had the upper hand right up to the end. I'd ask how these people found this place, but for all I know, the bastard gave out the address, too."

"Bingo."

"Beautiful. Well, c'mon. I could use your help. Apparently there're a couple people out back that need cleaning up. Still alive. Unlike their employer."

"You sound so torn up about it, too," Kevin noted with a light smirk. "Has my fine Christian partner turned Puritan on me?"

"Oh, I'm a good boy," Darren said, "but I don't get hung up on feeling guilty when people get what they deserve. If I did, I wouldn't be a cop. I'd be Catholic."

"Hey, now. My mother-in-law's Catholic. You looking to start a religion war?"

"My god could beat up her god."

Kevin snickered. "You do know we're all Christians when it comes down to it, right? Catholic, Orthodox, even them freakish Lutherans. It's all one big umbrella."

"Just because we're sharing an umbrella doesn't mean I won't push her out into the rain. Besides, you said it yourself. Your _mother-in-law_ is Catholic. Apparently her daughter escaped."

"Not really, but she's trying."

Darren laughed, but almost immediately choked it off, remembering why Kevin was even here, why _he_ was even here, and felt guilty despite himself. Shaking his head at the irony, he turned a solemn look over his shoulder, back into the mansion where Joey and Tristan were trying to coax the Kaibas into moving. He barely resisted the urge to sigh.

"…How's the kid?" Kevin asked, sobering.

"He'll be okay," Darren replied, trying to keep the, _I hope,_ out of his tone. "He's shaken up, but no serious injuries."

"I started reading up on them, y'know," Kevin said, "back when you first told me about 'em. They're...they've been through hell, haven't they? All those stories...they're true, aren't they?"

"Most of the worst ones are," Darren offered. "If you ever wanted proof that fate is a cruel, overly demanding bitch...they're all the proof you'll ever need. But I guess there's always a silver lining. In the end...it's what's helped them survive. If not for the lives they've had, tonight would have broken them."

"So I guess it's our job now to fix things up, isn't it? Let them get back on their feet without worrying about the clean-up. Let's go see about this bastard's flunkies, then."

"Let's."

* * *

**3.  
**

* * *

_October 29, 2007  
_

* * *

"Do you…d'you remember what he looked like?" Joey asked, looking at Téa with an expression that was at once pained and furious. "When Crawford beat 'im. I'm not talkin' about when he sucked Kaiba's soul out or however the hell that magic works. I'm talking about right after he lost. Right when Crawford used _Copycat _on Kaiba's _Crush _virus, when Kaiba first realized he was gonna lose. You remember that. Don't you, Téa?"

Téa shook her head. "N-No. I…I don't. I'm sorry."

Joey grunted. "Well, I do," he said. "Think it was the first time I ever really thoughta Kaiba as more than…an obstacle, I guess. When I got it. When I got why he damn near offed himself out on that balcony."

"That look," Tristan said, haunted, "made that blank stare when he was soulless look…look…_nice. _Like Crawford had done him a favor. 'You just lost the only chance you had to save your baby brother.' Or whatever the hell he said. It was like…Kaiba was begging him to get on with it. To…to end it."

Yugi was staring at his lap. "I had…_we _had, Yami and me, a…dream. Before the final day of the tournament," he said softly. "We saw…all of them. Mokuba, Grandpa, Kaiba. They were on…crosses." He seemed embarrassed to be admitting this. "Just hanging there. And they said…they told us it hurt. They asked us to…help. _Begged _us to help. But…do you know," he looked up at them all, "what Kaiba said? What he asked us to do?"

Téa shook her head, looking terrified.

"'Get him out of this,'" Yugi recited. "'Whatever else you do, Mutou…whatever sacrifice you have to make…get. Him. Out.'"

"Sounds like Kaiba, a'right," Joey said. "He'd…he'd do anything for that kid." He turned his eyes away for a moment, looking like he wasn't sure whether he wanted to smile or cry. "He looked like that, Téa. Like when Crawford beat 'im. That night, after _winning, _he looked like that. Like his life wasn't worth half a fuck past pain anymore. Like he'd finally cracked under the pressure. He looked like he wanted to die, Téa, after he _fucking won."_

"He was on autopilot," Tristan said. "Damn near killed anyone who tried to touch the kid. Weren't for Detective McKinley, he'd've gone on a goddamn rampage. I swear it."

"Who…who _is _this…Detective McKinley?" Téa asked.

"I guess he and Kaiba met at a conference or something," Yugi said. "Right around when you left for school. Detective McKinley was on security. Kaiba was supposed to give a presentation or something like that, I guess."

"How…how was Mokuba?" she asked after a moment.

"Calm, s'long as he could see 'is brother," Joey said. "Soon's he lost sight o' Kiaba, he'd start cryin' out for him, fighting off the staff and trying to find 'im."

Téa let out a little whimper.

"You would've thought things'd get better, once they got Mokuba sedated and in his own room. Just our damn luck, that's when shit fell apart." Tears were running down Joey's face, and he didn't seem aware of it.

Téa looked ready to cry herself.

Tristan, sitting back, eyes closed and head down, said, "We were wrong, Téa. Dead fuckin' wrong. Okay, so he's not the nicest sonuvabitch in the world, but…for the love o' God, would _you _be?" He looked up. "We seen guys _try _to kill Mokuba before, but…this guy almost _fucking _did it."

"So that _shit," _Joey snarled, standing and pointing to the newspaper sitting discarded on the counter, "where the son of a _whore _don't even mention Schroeder's goddamn _name, _just makes him out to look like a motherfucking _victim?"_

Téa flinched. "I…I didn't…"

"Yeah. You didn't know. 'Cuz that _fuck _didn't tell you! The bastard oughtta be locked the _fuck _up for that shit! Let's not mention the _kid _who almost got his _goddamn _head blown off 'cuz of the 'competitor' Kaiba 'chose to shoot in his own home,' 'cuz that'd make him look _half the fuck human!"_

"Joey…" Yugi said softly, holding up a head.

"I…I…sorry, Téa, that just…pisses me off. I think I finally get what—"

"Joey," Yugi said again, more forcefully.

The blond blinked, looked at his friend, then looked at where he was pointing.

Mokuba Kaiba stood in the doorway to the Turtle Game Shop, arms crossed over his chest, and his glare could have frozen a bonfire. It was locked, dead-center, on Téa Gardner.

* * *

**4.  
**

* * *

"That's enough," Mokuba said, and the light and happy voice that the group associated with him was nowhere even close. This wasn't an eleven-year-old boy; this wasn't Mokuba, Kaiba-Corp's lovable mascot, that people loved to watch as he made his little speeches and dressed up in funny costumes. This wasn't even Seto Kaiba's little brother.

This was Kaiba-fukushachou. Kaiba Gozaburo's son.

"I'm sure you meant well, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell that story to just _anyone, _if you don't mind." The boy's grey-violet eyes flashed.

Téa flinched. Frowning, Yugi said, "Mokuba…this isn't 'just anyone,' it's—"

"Who?" Mokuba snapped, eyebrows raising. "A friend? Someone I can trust? Someone I'd _like _to know the truth? I don't think so. This isn't _your_ story, Yugi. Or _yours,"_ he all but snarled at Joey and Tristan, who made no visible reaction at all. "It's my brother's. It's mine."

"Mokuba…" Yugi said, almost pleaded, "…you've always _liked _Téa. Haven't you? Why would you be so upse—"

Mokuba snatched up the paper and thrust it forward. _"This!" _he almost screamed. "I don't care if she's the Crown Princess of China! Do you guys think I haven't read what this…this…_asshole _wrote about my brother? I know exactly what these people think of him, and they'll drop to _anything _to make him look bad!" He turned his glare back to Téa, who went pale as she realized what she saw in those eyes: it wasn't anger…it was loathing. "Because they know people like _you _will believe it."

"Mokuba…I-I—"

"I've known you guys for three years," Mokuba hissed, "and every time I've seen you, you've _never _had _one _good thing to say about him. _You," _he jabbed a spasmodic hand at Téa, "were the _one _who _always _had to talk down to him. Assume _you _understand him and _you _had the right to insult him. Maybe the others didn't like him much, but you were special. You weren't only the worst one, you were the _stupid _one, too!"

"Mokuba!" Yugi protested, straining to sound like he had any sort of authority. But unlike the ancient king who had once shared a body with him, Yugi couldn't frighten a Kaiba into submission.

_"What?" _Mokuba screeched. "You guys don't get it, do you? I _know _what you guys think of him! I know what you've said to him! I'm not deaf! And _I'm _not the one who thought he tried to _kill himself _at Duelist Kingdom because he wanted the _stupid star chips!"_

Joey flinched violently, but he said nothing. Tristan turned away, and Yugi blushed.

Téa was mortified.

"What was it you said to him?" Mokuba asked all four of them, his voice suddenly much softer, and much more frightening as a result. For the first time, they truly understood that this boy and Seto Kaiba were brothers. "That his life was more important…than star chips? That he shouldn't waste his life on a game? That as long as he had _courage, _he'd always have _chips _in his _soul? _That's what you said, isn't it?"

"Y-Yes, but I…I…"

_"That's what you said."_

"Yes."

"Was _courage _going to save my life, then? Was _courage _going to save Yugi's grandfather? What about Yugi? You never told _him _that he shouldn't waste his life on a _game, _did you? _Did you?"_

"…No."

"You never told _him _to look for the chips in his _soul, _did you?"

"No."

"But it never crossed your mind, not even _once, _that my brother might have been there for something else. That maybe he was in a tournament he hadn't even _signed up for, _that maybe he was _cheating, _because he didn't have a choice. You idiots _knew _Crawford had me locked in his _dungeon, _but you didn't _ever _think he might have been there for me. Even _once."_

"…No," Yugi finally admitted. "We…we didn't. Yami did, but…we didn't."

"Well, _good _for Yami, then!" Mokuba spat. "You know what's funny? You all like to throw words around my brother, like heartless and cruel and jerk and asshole. The funny part is, a lot of people are like that. You guys don't think Pegasus Crawford is such a bad guy anymore, do you? Téa?"

She flinched again. "…No. He was trying…he was just…he—no."

"He _kidnapped _me. He _starved _me, he held me prisoner on his island for a _week. _Then he used that Millennium thing of his to trap me in a _playing card. _And if he'd beaten Yugi or Yami or whoever the _hell _dueled him, he would have _kept _me there. He would have killed me. Me, Niisama, _and _Solomon Mutou. But…oh, it's just…so _sad, _isn't it? The poor man just wanted to see his wife again. Let's not expect him to _grow up and deal with it, _no, it's so _sad! _But…but Seto Kaiba, he ripped a _card _in half! How _dare _he? What a _child!"_

"He didn't…he didn't _just _rip the card in—"

"Yugi, shut up," Joey cut in.

"I know," Mokuba said. "Mister Mutou had a heart attack. I guess you guys don't care that Niisama paid to get him into the best hospital in the city. I guess it doesn't matter that maybe it was an accident. No, he must have _wanted _to do that. He must have _planned _it. And I guess you guys don't really care that he was _sixteen, _and maybe he was in a bad place when he did that. No, let's all burn him at the stake for it, that heathen. We'll save our forgiveness for psychopaths who kidnap _children_ and keep them in _dungeons!"_

"Mokuba…I didn't…we didn't…we don't…" Téa was crying freely now, barely able to even stand anymore.

"You lost to yourself!" the young Kaiba sneered, raising his voice in savage mockery. "In the end, you couldn't even rely on your own courage! You ran away! You're the _real _loser!" With each snarled sentence, Téa flinched, her own words flung back at her with such scathing black hatred that the very room seemed to shudder.

Mokuba took a moment to compose himself, biting his lip and breathing deeply for a moment, before he said, "Niisama doesn't care. He doesn't listen to any of it, and he's trying to teach me that. Did you ever notice he never said I _couldn't _start coming over here and talking to you guys? He never said anything about it. I would've thought the kind of creep you love to think he is…well, he'd _forbid _it, wouldn't he? 'Cuz he's such a _dick."_

"I don't…I don't _love _to—"

"No. It's just easy. It's so easy to just call him a bastard, isn't it? Let's all vent our anger on Seto Kaiba, because…because he's rich and he's mean and he _hurts our feelings. _Was Pegasus Crawford rich and mean? Well, sure, but he had a _reason_ for it. Seto Kaiba doesn't have a reason. He's just _evil." _

Téa's eyes shot around, looking for some kind of backup, but her friends all looked stone-faced, and it was clear they weren't interested in defending themselves or her. They were laying themselves on the sword.

"What _else _did you say back then? Yugi has friends who'll stick with him to the very end. And what do _you _have at the end of the day, Seto Kaiba? Isn't that what you asked him?"

Téa nodded miserably.

"And what did he say?"

Guiltily, but without defensiveness, Joey said, "He told us, 'I have all that I need.'"

"He meant _me. _But you didn't think about that, did you? You just thought he was being his good old _asshole _self and good riddance to him, because why should _he _have a motive? Yugi's grandpa got _his _soul stolen, too, and Niisama should care about an old man he doesn't know more than his own family. Right. _That's _how it works. You wanted him to be a _good sport, _get in line and wait for you 'cuz _you _got there first, even though it was his only chance to save me. You wanted me to _die."_

_ "No!"_ Téa wailed.

"No? Oh. Right. Yugi saved me. Obviously Niisama was supposed to trust you. Obviously he was supposed to leave Yugi to do it, because he's such a trusting person. _He's _supposed to trust _you, _because _you _had so much faith in _him."_

"I…I'm sor—"

"And now _this," _the boy said, shaking the newspaper. "Not only is he evil, but now you think he's a murderer. _Again, _it can't be because of me. He's just crazy and evil and he likes to shoot people. And you think, 'Oh, if only he was a better person, _my _life would be so much better.'" Mokuba threw the paper onto the ground, looking angry enough to start crying himself, for sheer frustration. "If Niisama was a better person, I'd be d-dead," he choked, voice breaking on the last word. "Even…even though everything got explained to you…even _after _you knew he was trying to s-save me…you still found it so easy to believe he was a murderer. Just like…just like the rest of them. _Just like everyone else!"_

"I…oh, God, I…I'm sor—"

_"Shut up!" _Mokuba sobbed, and now the anger was gone. Burnt out. "Just…just stop. I don't want to hear it. I'm sorry. Sorry my brother ruined _your _day again. Sorry he _upset _you again." Tears ran in rivulets down his face from his empty eyes, and his voice hitched again. "So _sorry _I'm _stupid enough _to l-love him!" He started digging frantically in his pocket for his phone, forcing himself to calm down. "…I'm going home."

"Mokuba…" Yugi murmured gently. "She…she knows. She's trying to apologize. You shouldn't interrupt her when she's _trying _to apologize!"

The younger Kaiba brother glanced up from the device clutched in his hand, and his entire being turned icy. "She hasn't earned the right to apologize," he said, completely calm and collected again, as he turned and headed for the door. He began punching the digits of a number as he pushed the door open. Téa stood, stunned and crying, unable to take her eyes away from him.

Mokuba turned to look over his shoulder, and his own grey-violet eyes were murderous.

"…Not from me."

* * *

**5.  
**

* * *

He walked with purpose, swift and silent, and there was a rose in his hand.

It wasn't often that Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba could be found in Domino City's Vinewood Terrace cemetery. He was not the sort of man to dwell on the past, on lives lost and history's footprints. So much demanded his attention that he often had no time to think of anything else, even if he had wanted to do it.

He wore a black suit, but he did not mourn. He did not cry. In the year between the death of Siegfried von Schroeder and now, he had made what would have been called a "full recovery." He did not believe such a thing existed, but he also didn't care. He was himself again, and while he was impacted by that night when the world had almost ended, he did not dwell on it. He did not feel that he had the right to dwell on it.

He told himself that he didn't know his reason for being here. And that was partly true. What he didn't know was what he might take from this visit; he _did _know why he had come, however. The rose in his hand proved that readily enough. It was a red rose. Fairly standard. Perhaps a flower better suited to another sort of gesture, but he didn't think of that. When he had picked it out, he had been thinking of a portrait hanging in his office, painted by a hand he did not know; a portrait from an old photograph that he had not seen for several years.

It seemed fitting.

_It's…a place to rest, _Yagami Yuki had said once, when four-year-old Yagami Seto asked her what a cemetery was. _It's a place to remember, to be at peace, with your family. It's a place where you can see old faces, even when they're gone._

"Why…?" Seto murmured now, parroting the question he had asked, so many years before.

_Because sometimes, you can't figure out the answer yourself. Sometimes, you need advice from somebody who came before you. When you go to a cemetery, Seto-chan, you're looking for answers. Why are all these people here? Why did they leave? Why can't all our loved ones live forever? Why do we have to die? You don't always find the answers, but it never hurts to ask. And maybe, one day, somebody will answer you._

"…I can't help but doubt that, Mother…" Seto whispered, looking at the rose in his hand.

He looked up, surveying his surroundings, and found the way to go. He knew where she lay, alongside her mother, and father, and husband, and he thought that he would never forget. He remembered standing there, holding his infant brother, as she had been lowered into the earth. Yes…he knew where she lay.

But as he began to head in that direction, something else caught his eye.

It was a mausoleum, guarded by a stone angel. His attention was riveted to that edifice, that resting place for those unable to bear the thought of lying with strangers. And as he turned and began to walk toward it, he wondered. But he knew, even before he saw. It was the final resting place of the von Schroeder family.

He entered without hesitating, wondering why he would bother. But something guided him, and he chose not to ignore it. The place was dark, and uncomfortable, and Seto couldn't help but think that it was the specific people entombed here that caused the particularly foreboding atmosphere. He thought it likely that the personal homes of the living members of this most exalted clan would feel just the same.

In the back, enshrined with offering upon offering of elaborate and colorful floral arrangements, was Siegfried von Schroeder. Born on the 17th of November, 1988. Died on the 9th of September, 2006.

The flowers were fresh, likely kept that way through some arrangement with the cemetery's staff, and the sheer number of them both exasperated and irritated the tomb's current visitor. Seto scowled, unsurprised but still insulted.

He glanced to the side, and saw another marker.

And suddenly, he had his answer.

* * *

**Leonhart von Schroeder**

**June 14, 1995 – July 28, 2005**

_**Alles hat ein Ende**  
_

* * *

Seto's mouth opened…and he understood.

He turned a bitter smile back upon the man who had once been a rival, the man who had made it his personal duty in life to overthrow the Kaiba family in any way possible, and Seto almost laughed. He looked at the rose in his hand, and shook his head. Inexplicably, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He had his answer. The final shadow of confusion wrought by Siegfried von Schroeder's final stand for victory fled Seto Kaiba's mind.

"He was too good for you, Siegfried," Seto whispered, and dropped the rose in front of Leonhart's grave; the first offering the young von Schroeder had received in over two years. He turned on his heel, and shook his head in wonder.

His phone rang, and he took it out of his pocket.

"…And I think you knew that."

* * *

**END.  
**

* * *

_**And thus, we reach a milestone. For those wondering throughout the course of this work so far, why Seto and Joey seem to get along so well, or why Seto is so overly protective in certain situations; for those wondering why this piece spanned such a long stretch of time, I hope that it was worth it.**_

_** Those of you who have been following my side-project, "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes," will know that my latest chapter ("Stands Hard as a Stone") deals with the ramifications of this incident from Mokuba's point of view. So I hope that helps to paint the picture I was trying to present here. **_

_** When I set out to complete this story arc, I wanted to stay away from the standard "Mokuba's kidnapped" tropes. By which I mean, I didn't want a villain who was out to get something from Seto. Siegfried von Schroeder wasn't out for personal gain or glory. He wasn't in it to manipulate Seto.**_

_** He was in it to ruin Seto.**_

_** Not financially. Not physically. But mentally and emotionally. That, I think, marks the distinction. By targeting Mokuba with the explicit knowledge that he wouldn't come out of it alive, Siegfried managed to steal Seto's greatest defense. And, as this chapter shows, Mokuba didn't get off scott-free, either. He's angry, he's scared, and he's sensitive. For his confrontation with Téa, I used a combination of both speeches she levels onto Seto during Duelist Kingdom; both the English version, and a translation of the original Japanese.**_

_** This incident will have longstanding repercussions throughout the rest of the story. That, I think, is what makes it a climactic event. Not the action, not the intrigue, but what remains after the adrenaline stops pumping and you're left wondering what the hell just happened, and how you're going to handle it.**_

_** I utilized von Schroeder for this because he's a character I've never written before, and was the only one with the right kind of history to inflict this kind of damage. As for Leonhart…he needed a catalyst, and unfortunately that was the only thing I could fathom that would drive Siegfried to such an act.**_

_** In that, I'm afraid, Seto Kaiba and Siegfried von Schroeder are frighteningly alike.**_


	20. Nakama

_**I have a couple of notes before we begin. **_

_**First, it has never been my intention to break the terms of submission on this site. I play by the rules, all except one. I have, throughout this story and some others, continually broken a specific rule by quoting published works which are not in the public domain. I understand that ignorance is no excuse, but I began submitting here back when various banned practices were still permitted: NC-17 pieces, stories about real-life celebrities, songfics, et cetera. I was under the mistaken impression that the manner in which I chose to quote certain songs/books/poems, as epigraphs, was still permitted. I have recently come to the understanding that I was wrong. I have since removed said epigraphs from this story, and will be working to remove them from my other works. I must simultaneously thank and apologize to Teh-AMAZING-One. Thank you so much for looking out for me.**_

_** One more point: I am under no magnificent delusion that I am perfect. I make just as many mistakes as anyone. I'm always glad to hear from my audience, and if there is something in any of my stories that bothers you, I encourage and appreciate bringing it to my attention. I won't be angry. I want these stories to be the best that they can be, and you are just as much a part of that process as I am.**_

_** However, when delivering criticism to me, I respectfully request politeness, courtesy, and thoroughness. I, like many of you, put my work up here to share my imagination with others and to improve my writing. I do not, and will not, tolerate being flamed. Any such criticism will be summarily ignored.**_

_** That said (apologies to my faithful audience; this hostility is in no way directed at any of you), I continue "Paved with Good Intentions" with the first chapter of its new story arc, which begins here, some months after the "von Schroeder incident" but before the events of the first chapter.**_

_** If you've read chapter 19 of "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes," you will know that in my mind, Mokuba is rather fond of the Swordstalker. I explained my reasoning for this in that chapter, but suffice it to say that I think there was more to his using it to rescue Seto in the Five-Headed-Dragon arc of the anime than random chance.**_

_** Keep that in mind as you read.**_

_** It should, if I've done my job right, add something to the narrative.**_

* * *

**1.  
**

* * *

"You're sure about this, then?"

Seto glanced at his assistant and nodded. "He's recovered enough, and spending all his time at home is beginning to affect him, anyway. He wants to go back to a traditional school. He performs better in a classroom setting, and I've been having to reschedule lately anyway."

"Better?" Roland Ackerman repeated, frowning incredulously. "Master Kaiba, are you serious? I've seen his work, you know. It's exemplary! He's doing better than I did in _high_ school, and I did rather well."

Seto smirked. "He's not going back to Oakwood. I'm having him transferred to East Rivers."

"Of course you are," Roland laughed. "He's _more_ than ready for junior high by now."

"He is, but I would have kept him at Oakwood and have him go through sixth, except that he's insisting that he can handle it. It seems that he wants to…emulate me." There was obvious pride in the elder Kaiba's voice, but also a twinge of worry. Roland knew why. Seto had effectively graduated from high school by twelve, and the idea of Mokuba trying to force himself to follow his brother's example _was _rather worrisome.

"So then…?"

"He takes the entrance exam next week," Seto said. "He'll attend his first classes a week afterward." There was no question that Mokuba would pass; Roland didn't mention it. "I've been forwarded a list of his potential instructors."

"And?"

"They'll suffice," Seto said, which was about the highest praise any public school teacher was liable to get from him. "One of them…Joanna Lorwell. English. Her sister works at the Children's Home."

Roland nodded. "I remember that one. Jennifer, I believe. She's quite spirited."

Seto chuckled. "Not the word I would have used."

"Still, you hired her. I'm assuming she's qualified. The same goes for her sister?"

"Yes. I'm not concerned. East Rivers was recommended to me personally." Roland knew that the only opinion Seto would take seriously was Detective Darren McKinley's. He remembered that Darren's daughter, Katherine, had gone to Mokuba's elementary school. Roland figured that when she had graduated, she'd moved on to East Rivers Middle.

"The little one is excited, I assume?"

Seto nodded. "Quite. I've no doubt he'll do fine. But…" Seto reached into his desk and withdrew a manila folder. He held it out. "Look into them. See if you find any red flags, and if you do, bring them to my attention immediately. I don't intend to take chances."

Roland nodded as he took the folder. "Of course."

It was clear that Seto was distracted. He'd eventually given in to Mokuba's requests—after several months of homeschooling—to head back to a traditional school, but that didn't mean that he was pleased with the idea. As Roland left his employer's office and headed toward his own, he thought that Seto had good reason not to be. The chance of Mokuba being targeted again, just as he'd been by Siegfried von Schroeder, was high; it had always been high. And although he had been searching, Seto had yet to find any bodyguards trustworthy enough to hire.

"Anyone I trust to guard my brother's life," Seto had said, "has to be as close to perfect as humanly possible. I have to _know, _without the faintest bit of doubt, that Mokuba will be safe with this person, and that means I have to be far more critical than I've ever been before. Find me perfection, Roland, or don't bother."

Roland hadn't found perfection yet.

As he sat down at his desk, Roland looked at his phone, and on impulse picked it up and dialed a number. After two rings, there was an answer: _"Roland?"_

"Little one," Roland said, smiling. "I hear you're going to be heading back to school."

_"Yeah. Niisama finally said it was okay."_

"I'm supposing it took some convincing."

_"Yeah. Sure did."_

Roland's smile dropped a bit. "…Listen…Mokuba. I think…I think, at least, for the first week or two…you might want to make a habit of calling your brother throughout the day. I doubt…it's strictly allowed, but…but I think you should do it, anyway."

_"I think he'll call me first," _Mokuba said, chuckling.

"I…kind of doubt that, little one. That's why I called. Don't…don't wait for _him_ to call. Whenever you get the chance…between classes, at lunch…just…well, don't wait. All right?"

There was silence for a moment.

Then,

"…_Yeah. Yeah, okay."_

Roland didn't bother to explain himself; he knew Mokuba understood. And so he said goodbye, hung up the phone, and opened the folder Seto had given him. _Part of me wants to think you're paranoid, sir, _he thought, smirking.

And yet…

_The rest of me knows you're right._

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"Seventh grade, huh?"

Mokuba nodded. "Uh-huh. Niisama got a test set up, so I can see if I'm good enough for it. If I pass, I start school in a couple weeks. East Rivers Middle School."

Joey Wheeler smirked. "Jus' kinda figures. Lookit you, tryin' to hide that smirk o' yers. Skippin' sixth grade. Well, congratulations, kid. Betcha'll do fine."

"Did you go there?" the boy wondered.

"Me?" Joey pointed to himself. "Nah. I went t' good ol' Domino Junior High. Kinda lame soundin', isn't it? Generic. Not too good a school, either, come to think of it. Good thing yer not goin' there. East Rivers, that place's good. Better neighborhood, better teachers, all 'at good stuff."

Tristan Taylor nodded. "My sister went there. S'more upscale. Not surprising, Kaiba sending you there. Although honestly, I'd have figured you for a private school kid. One of the real swanky places, y'know?"

Mokuba shook his head. "If he wanted to do that, he'd have just hired tutors and had me stay at home. I don't want to go to a private school. I've seen a couple here, and they're…stuffy. It's the kind of place where I'm _expected _to go, and that's just…"

"Yeah, that makes sense," Joey admitted.

Yugi Motou—carrying a huge box of plastic models and anime DVDs—stumbled into the front of the Turtle Game Shop, where Joey, Tristan, and Mokuba were seated around a card table. "So are you excited?" he asked, voice slightly shaky as he struggled with the weight of his burden. Joey got up and helped him set it on the counter.

"Yeah," Mokuba said. "I think I am. Niisama took me to see it yesterday. It looks nice."

"I'd make fun o' ya for sayin' you're 'excited' to go to school, but I guess you smart kids actually _like _it," Joey said, smirking. "Prob'ly would've had a lot better time in school 'f I'd actually paid attention. Or 'f I had to spend all my time at home with Kaiba."

Mokuba almost snapped at the blond, until he saw the wide grin on Joey's face. The jab was good-natured, and the black-haired boy realized that it had been meant solely as a joke. He smiled. Joey winked and began to help Yugi unload the merchandise he'd brought out.

The bell above the door of the shop rang, and Yugi said, "Be with you in a second."

Joey turned and saw a red-haired boy with a backpack slung over his shoulder. "Hey. Does this place have—holy crap." The boy stopped, and his mouth gaped. His eyes kept turning from Mokuba to Yugi and back to Mokuba again.

"Might wanna check a church outhouse for that," Tristan said, and Joey snickered.

"…Huh?"

"Welcome to the Turtle Game Shop," Joey said with a bit of a flourish, "yer one-stop shop f' Domino City's game 'n geek elite. I think I can tell whatcher gonna ask, and…yeah. It's _them_. Autographs're a maybe, maybe not deal. Hafta ask 'em."

There was once a time, Mokuba mused, when Joey would have been offended to not have hordes of fans gawking at _him, _but he seemed to have come to grips with the fact that for some reason, even though he had defeated any number of prominent duelists (not the least of which being "Bandit" Keith Howard), Joey Wheeler's name simply didn't resonate in the public's memory.

"Ah…um…r-right."

Yugi turned finally and smiled. "Are you looking for anything in particular?" he asked. "If you _do _want an autograph, I'll need to find a pen."

That was something else Mokuba noticed; just as Joey was growing more comfortable with his obscurity, Yugi seemed to be growing more comfortable with his fame. The young Kaiba remembered a time when he would have been petrified to even speak to a fan, much less make a joke. The red-haired boy laughed, awkwardly, and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"Ah…n-no, that's okay, I…I was just wondering if…if you had something. M-Mister Devlin at the Black Crown said to check here."

"Duke?" Yugi asked, smiling. "Well, that was nice of him. What is it you're looking for?"

"It's a, uh…a model? A new _Magic & Wizards _statue. It's in the, ah…um…third series."

"Ah!" Yugi nodded. "The new one? Just came out last week, I think."

The boy nodded. "Yes! That's it."

Yugi glanced at the box he'd brought out. "Mm…you know, it's not in this box, here, but I'm pretty sure we got some a couple days ago. Let me go check in the back. Just a minute."

The boy nodded. "Okay! Thank you, Mister Motou!"

"Heh," Joey chuckled. "Mister Motou. Nice. Hey, Yug, where you want this stuff, anyway?" He jabbed a thumb at the box.

"Set it out by the windows. Whatever you can't fit can go on the shelves." Yugi turned to leave the room. "Thanks, Joey!"

* * *

**3.**

* * *

The kid with the red hair looked nervous enough to wet himself.

Joey supposed there was good reason for that. Having befriended Mokuba, he had quickly realized just how famous _both _Kaiba brothers were. He thought it was pretty stupid of him to not have seen it before, but Mokuba had much the same problem with children that his brother had with teens: they flocked to him, and yet none could ever string together proper sentences around him.

The thing was…Joey would have sworn that Mokuba would have gotten used to it by now. But looking at the heir to the Kaiba name, he'd have said that Mokuba was just as flustered by this redhead's attention as Yugi might have been a couple years ago. He was maintaining eye contact with the boy, and he _was _answering the questions posed to him, but all the same it didn't feel right. Mokuba seemed to be gauging the boy, eyes constantly flickering up and down as if waiting for the boy to pull a weapon. And his answers were clipped. Stock answers. The sorts of answers that said, "Okay, stop talking now. You bother me."

At least, that's how it sounded to Joey. The kid didn't seem to catch the same thing; he kept stumbling his way through a conversation, flustered and blushing and unsure of where to look. Mokuba was polite, but it was so painfully obvious that he didn't want to talk that Joey honestly marveled at how the redhead could keep going. Maybe Mokuba hadn't quite yet perfected the "Kaiba Sneer" that his brother pulled off so effortlessly when _he _didn't want to talk to somebody (which was just about always).

"…Why don't you play Capmon anymore?" the redhead was asking.

"The latest tournament rule set messed everything up," Mokuba said mechanically. "The game's too easy now. I still play sometimes, but only with the older rules."

"Oh…"

Joey glanced at Tristan, and from the look on the brunette's face, he saw, and heard, the same thing Joey did: Mokuba did _not _want to be having this conversation. It was odd; Mokuba was usually extremely open and social, and if anybody asked anything about a game he had played, the boy was usually just as excited as Yugi to talk someone's ear off about it. Over the past few months, though, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid talking to people, electing only to converse with a select few—his brother, Joey, Tristan, and Yugi seemed to comprise the entire list—and anyone else he took great pains to avoid.

Just as Joey was about to wonder why that was, and why he seemed so much like his brother right now—saying just enough to be polite and absolutely nothing else—he realized with a jolt that he knew the answer.

"Hey, uh, buddy," Joey said suddenly, just as the red-haired boy was about to ask another question. "Listen, ah, you wouldn't by chance happen t' know _me, _wouldja? Joey Wheeler? Guy who damn near won the Duelist Kingdom, Battle City, _and _KC Grand Prix tournaments? Eh? Eh? C'mon. Don't say ya don't reco'nize me."

Mokuba blinked, looking surprised.

Tristan smirked.

"I…I…_think _I…"

"Well!" Joey cried, slipping in between the boy and Mokuba and leading him off, "lemme _school _ya, then! See, you might know Yugi, 'n you might know Kaiba, but me? I'm right up there with 'em, honest t' God. So here's the deal, man, I…"

Joey went on, rambling to the point where even _he _didn't know what he was saying after about ten seconds, but when he glanced over at Mokuba, he saw profound relief on the young Kaiba's face. When Mokuba glanced up at him, Joey winked.

Mokuba's smile was almost worshipping.

Joey thought, as sudden warmth struck his stomach, that he finally understood why Seto Kaiba was so damned protective. It was for that smile. For that radiant smile, Joey knew, Seto would do anything. Absolutely anything.

Damned if it didn't make a hell of a lot more sense, now that he'd seen it for himself.

Joey didn't know how long Yugi would have to spend in the back of the shop to find whatever it was the redhead wanted, but he was bound and determined to play distraction for as long as it took. He didn't pay attention to the fact that his "audience" didn't seem all that impressed, just confused, as Joey railed off his numerous achievements in the _Magic & Wizards _arena; as Mokuba had suspected, the blond was far past the days when he cared if people knew his name or not. Especially since fame didn't seem to be quite the Holy Grail he'd once thought it was.

From what he'd seen of Mokuba…it was more trouble than it was worth.

"Don't mind him," Tristan cut in, and Redhead turned to him. "He gets kinda antsy when you don't pay enough attention to him. Like a needy dog. Just pat 'im on the head; he'll be fine."

"Woof," Joey muttered.

Mokuba snickered.

Redhead grinned.

"Just don't pay _too _much attention or he'll wind up peeing on the floor," Tristan added, and when Redhead doubled over laughing, _he _winked at Mokuba too. Joey wasn't sure if the boy's grin could get any wider even if it wanted to.

"Watch it 'r I'll gnaw on yer leg," Joey said, determined to retain some amount of dignity (such as it was) even though he was sacrificing it willingly. "Why don't _you _duel me, smartass? Huh? Oh, yeah, that's right, you _can't. _'Cuz you _suck."_

"Right, because _you _started out like a God-honest prodigy, right?"

"Sure, I did. Jus' didn't wanna make you guys feel bad, so I acted dumb. You know about that, actin' dumb. Right? C'mon. If you're gonna mock my skills, then let's test 'em. Right now. Bring it on."

Now fully distracted by the show, the red-haired boy may as well not know Mokuba was even in the room; and if Joey were to hazard a guess, that's precisely how he wanted it. It wasn't too long before Yugi finally shuffled his way into the room again, holding a box that wasn't quite as big as the one he'd first brought in; but for a single item, it was rather huge.

Mokuba frowned curiously at first…then his eyes went wide.

And his grin came back.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

"You're in luck," Yugi said as he set the model onto the counter. "We have five of them. These are a limited run. There wasn't much advertising for them, so we didn't get any preorders. This is the one you wanted, right?"

It was a statue. After the Duelist Kingdom tournament, besides continuing to release booster sets of _Magic & Wizards _cards, Industrial Illusions had begun to dip its hand into more…tangible merchandising. Some of the most popular were the _Living Legends _collectible statues. Each statue was modeled after a popular monster card. The first series had consisted of the Dark Magician, the Flame Swordsman, the Harpy Lady, the Red-Eyes Black Dragon, and Relinquished. Mokuba, and any number of other collectors, had been surprised and rather dismayed to find that the signature monster of Seto Kaiba—who was once the top-ranked duelist worldwide—the Blue-Eyes White Dragon, had been conspicuously absent.

The second series of collectible statues had been more obscure: Ryu-Kishin Powered, Gaia the Fierce Knight, the Witty Phantom, and the adorable but mostly useless Kuriboh. Mokuba had been further disappointed, and wondered why in the name of God the rarest monster card in the entire game (that had been made available to the public, anyway) had been neglected yet again.

Now he knew why.

The third series, of which information had been purposefully scarce, consisted of two monsters each poised in mock battle. Mokuba only knew of one of them: the Magician of Faith versus the Man-Eater Bug. An odd combination, Mokuba had thought. But now he saw another.

Crouched and poised to strike, gleaming slate-blue tail curled behind it, great wings spread out and mighty jaws open in a roar, was the Blue-Eyes White Dragon. And standing in front of the great wyrm, not facing it as if poised for war but with its back turned as if defending it, was the deadly, demonic bulk of the Swordstalker.

Darkness and Light.

Yin and Yang.

The red-haired boy looked excited, bouncing on his sneakers as he nodded enthusiastically. "That's it! That's it!" he nearly clambered up onto the counter as if he wanted to just grab the statue Yugi had taken from its box to show him. "Oh, wow! It's so _cool!"_

"You know the third series is a bit more expensive, right?" Yugi asked, quirking an eyebrow. "On account of having two monsters in each display. If you want to buy one, it'll be $49.99."

Redhead nodded. "I know, I know. I've been saving my allowance for a _month_ to get this! I'll take it!"

The transaction was made, and the red-haired boy whose name Mokuba had never bothered to ask for nearly skipped out of the Turtle Game Shop. Yugi laughed, shaking his head as if he were thinking, _Those crazy kids._

_ "He's _a fun one," Joey said. "Kid's pretty clueless, if ya wanna know the truth of it. But…eh. Whatever. Can't be more'n eight. And not every kid's a genius like _somebody _I could think of." The blond glanced over his shoulder at Mokuba, who was watching the door.

"Hey…Yugi," Mokuba murmured softly, almost vacantly. "You…you said you had…five of those?"

"Yeah," Yugi said. "Well…four, now. You want one?"

"…Uh-huh."

Yugi chuckled. "Thought you might." He turned, left the room, and came back again (this time much faster) with another of the statues. He frowned as he set it down. "You know…the other two of this series that's been released have had the two monsters fighting…this one's different. I don't understand why the _Swordstalker_ was paired up with the Blue-Eyes, either."

Mokuba did.

After he had handed his friend a hundred-dollar bill and stuffed his change into his pocket, Mokuba took the statue out of its box to examine it more closely. He noted, on the base just in front, a small plaque.

"Comrades in Arms," Joey read, glancing at it. "Huh. Interestin'."

"Heh. Maybe it's fightin' _for _the Blue-Eyes 'cuz it knows it can't beat 'em," Tristan suggested.

"What's 'at say?" Joey asked, frowning. He pointed to a pair of characters that he apparently couldn't read, just above 'Comrades in Arms.' Yugi shrugged. Mokuba smirked.

"It's Japanese," the black-haired boy said. "Kanji."

"Eh? Huh. 'Zat right?"

"What's it say?" Tristan wondered.

Mokuba's smirk softened, and he wondered who had designed this statue, and on whose orders. He thought he might want to meet that person, whoever it was.

"_Nakama,"_ Mokuba almost whispered. "It reads…_nakama."_

* * *

**END.**

* * *

_**I know, I know, "nakama" is perhaps the most overused Japanese word in all of anime. I hope I may be forgiven for perpetuating the cliché, but I felt it worked for the narrative. Since I went on a bit of a rant up top, I won't take up much of your time here. I just wanted to mention that this storyline will eventually lead up to when Mokuba first meets Connor Brinkley, a character who hasn't shown up in a while, and detail how their friendship began.**_

_** In the spirit of that, I've called this arc (this season, if you will): "Origin of the Species."**_

_** Until next time, take care. Be good to one another.**_


	21. The New Kid I

_**My family was robbed recently. Among other articles, my desktop computer was stolen. Thus, my work was stolen. The following chapter is spliced together from a backup draft of the story, smoothed out and streamlined to better fit the theme of the arc.**_

_** My first semester at University is coming to a close soon, and I hope to have a three-week break before the next; in that time, I intend to fully get back into the swing of this story. Those of you who have been following this story's side-project, "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes," thank you very much for your support. Those of you who have been waiting for this story to be updated, I apologize for the delay and beg you have patience as I work to get it off the ground again.**_

_** There have been a lot of interruptions, and my creative partner hasn't been available online for quite a while, besides.**_

_** Enough excuses. Let's see what happens, shall we?**_

_** This is the first section of a two-part storyline: "What I Go to School For."**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

"Does that brat _ever _shut up?"

"No," Daniel Elliot snarled with such savage anger that it didn't even sound sarcastic, "he doesn't. In fact—and here's the funny thing—he _bitches _in his sleep, just to _piss you off."_

Gregory Kelvin actually flinched and took a step backward. Daniel turned back to the crying child in front of him and glanced apologetically at the bus driver, who looked sympathetic but uncomfortable. She had tried to lift little Mokuba Yagami up to take him up to the bus, but hadn't been able to keep a hold on the tiny, surprisingly strong boy for more than a few seconds.

"No go!" Mokuba shouted. "No go! No weave!"

"Now, now, Mokuba-chan," Kristine Hathaway attempted to placate the boy. "It's okay. You're just going to school. Just for a little while, okay? It's okay, school is fun. Seto likes school. Seto goes to school."

Mokuba stopped crying just enough to look at the woman. "…Nii'tama?"

"That's right," Kristine said, smiling. "Don't you want to be like Niisama? Go to school? I bet he'll be proud of you. Niisama will be real proud of you. You're a big boy now, going to school. Don't you want to show Niisama what a big boy you are?"

"…Big boy," Mokuba murmured, thoughtfully. "I big boy."

"That's right," Kristine said, smiling.

"Nii'tama…big boy…" Mokuba murmured under his breath.

"Yes, Mokuba-chan," she said, "you're a big boy. Just like Niisama."

But as soon as the bus driver attempted to take Mokuba's hand, sudden fear shot into his big gray-violet eyes and he pulled away. Kelvin groaned, moving forward as if to grab the boy and throw him into the vehicle; he'd already made them late enough, and he had better things to do than watch grown adults play tug-of-war with a toddler. But Daniel Elliot stepped in front of him, and the fury in his usually bright, open face was enough to stop Kelvin in his tracks.

"Mokuba, it's okay!" Kristine tried again, but Mokuba continued to cry.

Until Seto Yagami, thin and quiet and far too cynical for his years, strode up to them. Mokuba thrust out his arms, crying for his brother, wanting him to save him from whatever cruel, hellish harpy this was who was trying to take him away, but Seto simply crossed his arms and stared into his brother's eyes with such unnerving calm that the younger boy stopped, confused and a bit frightened.

"Mokie?" Seto said, with the rising inflection of a born father. "What are you doing?"

"I…I…no weave! I 'cared, no weave, no bus!"

"You're just going to school," Seto said. His voice was soft now. Kristine and Daniel both saw that his eyes softened, too, as he saw just how frightened his tiny brother was. "You're going to go there to learn. Your alphabet, and your numbers, and important things like that. Just like when I was little. You have to learn things like this at school."

Mokuba pouted. "…Ha' tyoo?"

"Yes. You have to. Everybody has to. You're going to go to school and meet your teacher, and make new friends. You can tell me everything that happens at school when you get home later today, okay? Can you do that for me, Mokuba? Please?"

Mokuba looked around, looking like he was considering the request, and finally nodded. "I do," he said. "Nii'tama say pwease."

Seto gave his brother a bright, beaming smile. Mokuba's own face split into a grin. The older boy walked over and gave his brother a hug, kissed the top of his head, and ruffled his mass of black hair. "Thank you, Mokie," he said. "You go and have a good day, okay? I love you."

"Wuv tyoo, Nii'tama."

Seto smiled again, and Mokuba let the bus driver lead him away.

He turned his gaze to Gregory Kelvin, all warmth sloughing from his face like chalk from a blackboard swiped with a wet sponge. His blue eyes were suddenly cold, insulted, and condescending. It was clear that any sliver of respect the boy had ever had for Kelvin was now destroyed. And Kelvin, for his part, looked as if he finally understood just what that meant. "The _brat_ might shut up faster if you didn't scream at him so much," Seto said mechanically, and bowed his head. "Mister Kelvin, _sir."_

He stalked away.

Daniel Elliot had to work hard to keep from bursting into laughter.

Kristine Hathaway looked sorrowfully at the boy, then closed her eyes and sighed.

Gregory Kelvin, for the first time, looked legitimately frightened.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"Have a good day, all right, Mokuba?" Seto said softly as he pulled in front of East Rivers Middle School, a smile on his face that brightened his cobalt eyes. Mokuba smiled and nodded. "I called ahead to your principal and affirmed that everything's in order. You have your schedule?"

Mokuba nodded. "Yes, Niisama. I have it."

"Good," Seto said, looking satisfied. A few of the children walking up to the campus turned and looked at the car, talking to each other and pointing. Mokuba smiled again and hopped out, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

"Bye, Niisama," Mokuba said. Then he added, seemingly on impulse, "I…I love you."

The other children snickered, but Mokuba didn't seem to notice. Much.

Seto smiled. "Love you, too, kid. Have a good day."

When Mokuba stepped into Homeroom, he sat in the back of the room. Normally he would have taken one of the desks near the front, like his brother always said to do. Those few students in the front row were the ones most likely to learn something, and while the other students might mock those few, avoiding that wasn't worth the price. Of course, when he'd originally said this, Mokuba had asked why Seto himself hadn't sat in the front of the room when _he'd _been in school.

"I made the mistake of enrolling in an incompetent school district," Seto had answered, calmly as ever, looking like he'd fully expected that question (even smiled a little, as if he were pleased Mokuba had asked it). "I made the further mistake, based upon the first, of deciding I didn't need to pay attention. A mistake I won't allow you to make."

"You got straight A's in high school."

"I also didn't _learn _anything. I worked from my own intellect, and did nothing to further it."

And so Mokuba had made a habit of sitting in the front of the room. But this day, as he filed in with the rest of the students, he instinctually crossed the room for a back corner, finding that the idea of sitting in front, wholly visible with a multitude of eyes on his back, made him feel nervous. As his classmates began talking and laughing, waiting for the bell to ring to signify that class had started, Mokuba reached into his backpack for a book; always find a way to fine-tune your mind, Seto said, even in recreation.

The statement he would make later in Joanna Lorwell's class—that he had read and heard almost everything ever said or written about his brother—was not made in hyperbole; Mokuba made a point to keep up on Seto's public image, if only because he knew that Seto barely ever paid _any _attention to it at all. This day he was reading an anthology of essays called _Minds of Modern Technology; _specifically the 12th and 13th chapters.

Chapter 12 was dedicated to Seto. Chapter 13 was for their father.

* * *

…_**Perhaps the most astounding thing**__—_a man named Doctor Julian Firestone had written—_**about Seto Kaiba is just how markedly similar he remains to his predecessor, even as he remains so starkly different. Consider first the transition made of the Kaiba Corporation, once the cornerstone of military technology. Now, under Seto's leadership, focus has shifted into the almost ridiculous realm of electronic gaming, and yet a commitment to the utmost of excellence makes that shift feel almost natural.**_

_** A second case: like Gozaburo Kaiba before him, Seto has procured an heir to his fortune. Some have made the connection between Mokuba Kaiba and Noa Kaiba, and that connection perhaps isn't so far off the mark; however, it is my conviction that the relationship between Gozaburo and his son was not unlike so many other "rich" families, and there was not much in the way of closeness or warmth to be found. Mokuba Kaiba carries much the same fiery streak of independence so often commented on about his late stepbrother, but in his case it seems more as though Seto has stoked this flame personally, with the intent of raising his young brother into a strong, capable man. There is warmth there, and an honorable, indeed noble, intent. And so, while comparisons may be made, it is in that intent that there is a most starkly opposed difference between the current Master Kaiba of Kaiba-Corp and the previous one…**_

* * *

"Hey, celebrity," somebody hissed, and Mokuba looked up. A boy was staring at him. He had black hair gelled up into spikes, and was dressed in slacks, loafers, and a polo shirt. "Heard you're bein' homeschooled. Why don't you go on back there? What'd you come _here _for? Nobody wants you here."

Normally, Mokuba would have ignored it. Normally, Mokuba would have let the jibe slide off of him like the proverbial water off a duck's back. But all of a sudden, the young Kaiba's insides froze up, and he couldn't find his voice. His mouth opened, and he tried to speak, but nothing came out.

He was suddenly terrified.

He had to get out of here.

This place…he had to…he—

"You should join the debate team, Nick," came a strangely familiar female voice. "What gems of scholarly wisdom will you impart on him next? Going to tell him to go back to Korea, because you're too stupid to know he's Japanese?"

Those students who heard the girl began to laugh, and the boy's face reddened.

Relief shot through Mokuba's body like a high-class narcotic.

"Oh, yeah, look at you," the boy tried to snarl, attempting to regain the upper hand he'd never had, "happy your girlfriend had to stick up for you? Huh?" Keeping a stranglehold on what equilibrium he had, Mokuba mumbled something. The boy leaned in close. "What'd you say, celebrity? Speak up."

"I said…that's not anatomically possible."

A beat of silence.

The girl snickered loudly. Several others howled with laughter. The bully looked confused. Mokuba returned to his reading. He could tell from the atmosphere of the room that he'd won, thanks in no small part to the girl. He glanced up at her as the bell rang, and roll was called.

"Hawkins, Rebecca?"

The girl raised a hand. "Here," she said.

Now Mokuba knew why her voice had been familiar. He found a smile. He raised a hand when his own name was called, and spent the rest of the period in silence. He finished Doctor Firestone's essay, and wondered just how weird it would be to give the man a call, or…maybe send him an email. That seemed easier. More convenient.

When the bell rang for them to go to their first real class of the day, Mokuba stopped at the door, holding it open as he waited for Rebecca. When the young genius passed him, looking almost exactly the same as he remembered her (minus the teddy bear), she smiled at him.

"…Thanks, Rebecca," Mokuba offered.

"Sure," she replied, and winked.

Mokuba surprised himself by winking back.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

He spent the day being paraded in front of each classroom like some kind of prized animal and introducing himself. Normally, this wouldn't have bothered him all that much, but this whole thing wasn't normal. Mokuba knew that this was odd, just like his tendency to head to the back of the room and avoid eye contact with anyone was odd. He knew, and it bothered him, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what to do about it. His body didn't seem to want to listen to anything his brain told him.

Mokuba only felt _comfortable_ in two places anymore: at home in his room, or with his brother. Even with Yugi and Joey and the others, he felt _off_. Part of it, he thought, was that Seto had gotten so good at forcing people to leave him alone that a great many of them didn't bother to try anymore. Combined with the fact that Seto took charge of just about any situation (it was in his nature), this let Mokuba fade into the background, and he found that that was where he preferred to be lately.

By his fourth period, and thus his fourth "step up to the front of the room and tell us all a little bit about yourself" routine, Mokuba felt like he was going to snap, and just go crazy. But—and this was the only "but" he could find—at least Miss Lorwell was observant enough to notice that Mokuba was uncomfortable, and kind enough to be surprisingly gentle about the ordeal.

"We have a new student joining us today," she said, in a voice that Mokuba found he liked. It was strong, yet lilting; the voice of a stern but caring matron who wouldn't hesitate to be hard if she had to, but wouldn't if she didn't. She had dark brown hair, long and straight and hanging nearly to her waist. She was tall, not slender but not hefty, dressed in a cream-colored sweater and light blue jeans.

As usual, many of the other students murmured amongst themselves as Mokuba stood in front of the room, rubbing his fingertips with his thumbs and trying to ignore the nervousness twitching through him. Miss Lorwell put a hand on Mokuba's right shoulder, and he felt calmer.

"This is Mokuba," she said, after the conversation had dulled, and left it at that. She didn't mention his last name, although she knew it, and she didn't mention that he'd transferred to the school a year early, as his first period teacher had done. After the obligatory "Hi, Mokuba" resonated from the crowd, Miss Lorwell directed the young Kaiba to his seat and began her lesson. She didn't ask him to say anything, didn't ask him to tell the class anything about himself; she simply made sure the class knew he was there, and moved on.

Mokuba felt so grateful at this small gesture of kindness that he thought he might just kneel and kiss her feet if she asked. His fluttering heart calmed a bit, and he almost let himself relax. Instead, however, he reached into his backpack like he'd done four times already, and picked out a spiral-bound notebook. He began to take notes, just like Seto said to do, and when Miss Lorwell spotted him doing it, she smiled and nodded approvingly. But subtly, so that only Mokuba noticed.

Yes. He liked Miss Lorwell.

He liked her a great deal.

Mokuba didn't notice the blond boy sitting next to him all throughout the period, and when the bell rang for lunch, he didn't notice that the blond boy seemed to be trying to say something to him. He simply gathered up his things and left the room.

Connor Brinkley was left standing by his desk, embarrassed and frustrated with himself.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Mokuba saw Rebecca Hawkins again at lunch.

Unlike his old school, where the students were ushered into a cafeteria to eat, East Rivers simply opened up the main courtyard. Food was available inside for those students who hadn't brought their own, but there were also picnic tables around the edges of the yard.

Mokuba thought for a moment about heading over to the cafeteria; the food looked far better than anything he had seen at Oakwood Elementary. But he decided against it. Seto had packed a lunch for him, had taken the time out of his busy, hectic morning to make him something. Mokuba would eat that.

Rebecca was walking over to a table where three other girls were waiting. Mokuba sped up and called out to her, fleetingly wondering what the hell he was doing. She stopped, turned, and smiled. "Ah. Hello, Mokuba," she said, inclining her head. The other girls gasped. They had recognized him.

"Hi," Mokuba said. "I, uh…wanted to thank you again. For…earlier."

"Oh, that's no problem," she said, her own smile widening. "Any excuse to knock him down a peg or two was just fine with me. I'm kind of surprised to see you. It's been a while, hasn't it?" Mokuba nodded. The last time he had seen her had been during the KC Grand Prix tournament. With a sudden jolt, he remembered who _else _had been at that tournament, and his countenance darkened. Rebecca blinked, looking surprised. "Oh. I'm…sorry. I…I didn't mean…"

"No, no…it's okay," Mokuba said quickly.

"So…I guess we're classmates now," Rebecca said, smiling. "Do you want to join us?" She gestured to the table, where the other girls were all staring at him. Mokuba felt suddenly nervous. She chuckled. "I see. No problem. I think I know why you'd rather not. Ah…I'll see you later?"

Mokuba nodded his head. "Sure. I…I'm sorry, but I need to call my brother. I promised I would. He wants to…know how my first day is going." Rebecca quirked an eyebrow. "He's…kind of overprotective…sometimes."

"Seto Kaiba, overprotective…" Rebecca repeated. "Sounds kind of weird. Ah—sorry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's just…well…he doesn't seem the type to…be protective of _anything."_ She shrugged, looking slightly nervous.

Mokuba smiled. "It's okay. I hear that a lot."

"I bet you do. Well, I'll see you tomorrow in Homeroom, then?"

"Sure."

Mokuba waved as he left, and heard Rebecca's friends all clamoring to talk to her. He figured that Rebecca, like Seto, never bothered to pay much attention to the press, and maybe didn't know the extent of Mokuba's fame, and how it had been growing over the past few years. He guessed that the girls sitting at the table, though, did.

Mokuba hadn't actually intended to call his brother, but now that he thought about it, he realized that that's exactly what he wanted to do right now. He sat down at an empty table and fished out his phone, punching in the keys without looking.

_"Hey, kiddo," _Seto's voice came through the device a moment later. He sounded like he was smiling, Mokuba thought. _"Is everything okay?"_

"Yes, Niisama," Mokuba said, though he wasn't entirely sure he was telling the truth. "Everything's fine."

_"That's good. You've been taking notes?"_

Mokuba's smile, which had been creeping slowly onto his face, came full force. "Yes, Niisama."

Seto chuckled. _"Good. Very good. Your instructors are…sufficient?"_

This was Seto's "polite" way of asking if his teachers were absolute morons. "Yes, they're fine. I like my literature teacher. Miss Lorwell. She's nice, and she gives better lectures than the others. I met Rebecca Hawkins in Homeroom."

_"Did you, now?" _Another man might have asked how she was doing, how her grandfather was doing. Seto did not, however, and Mokuba hadn't expected him to. He had said it on impulse, not because he thought Seto would be actually interested. He didn't bother to mention the boy with the spiked hair.

"I like it here," Mokuba said. "It's nice."

_"Good. I'm glad to hear it. I suspect you're on your lunch break. You should eat, Mokuba. I need to be going. I've a meeting in twenty minutes. I'll see you after school, and you can tell me more. All right?"_

"You're picking me up?" Mokuba asked.

_"Of course. I'll see you then."_

"Okay. Bye, Niisama. Good luck."

Seto chuckled again. _"Thank you, Mokuba. Goodbye."_

Mokuba slipped his phone back into a pocket and reached over to his backpack, finally realizing that he was hungry. He hadn't asked what his brother had packed for him, and he wanted to see. The smile was still on his face as he pulled it out of his pack and set it in front of him.

The smile left as he realized someone was watching him. He looked up.

The boy with spiked hair was glaring at him.

"…Oh."

* * *

**END.**

* * *

_**Yes. Rebecca Hawkins. I know, I know. Trust me; there's a reason for the decision. She's generally despised by the general fandom, from my understanding. I personally have very little to stake in the argument, but I've seen enough to see why. She's very minimally developed, and generally annoying. She's a plot device.**_

_** I mentioned in early chapters that this story was meant to help flesh out the cast. This includes people I don't necessarily like. So, with this story arc, I wanted to explore what a few years would do to Yugi's Biggest, Bestest Fan. Seems she's calmed down a bit. I don't intend for her to take center stage, but she will have a distinct presence as the story goes on.**_

_** We'll be seeing a few more familiar faces as this arc goes on, as well as how Mokuba ends up meeting Connor Brinkley. So stick around school for a while; who knows? Maybe we'll all learn something.**_


	22. The New Kid II

_**I've spent a long time with "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes," and every time I come back to write this "mother story," it takes some getting used to. The whole notion of writing a cohesive plot is pretty thoroughly different from taking snapshots.**_

_** I've had to do a lot of editing to make this storyline work. It's unfortunate to find that ideas I thought worked, turned out not to fit the spirit of the full work. All this is to say, I've written a lot off and on for a while, and most of it is now useless.**_

_** Nonetheless, what I have here begins to tell the story I've been wanting to uncover since the first chapter. So I guess it's only natural that it take a lot of work.**_

_** Enjoy this chapter, subtitled "The Wrong Target."**_

_** See you next time.**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

"You think you're pretty smart, don't you, rich boy?"

Mokuba folded his hands in front of him, looking like nothing so much as a school counselor waiting for his latest appointment to take a seat. A panicked sort of calm seemed to have taken over. "Well," the black-haired boy said, "it sure beats thinking I'm stupid."

The blond boy sneered. "You think you're better than me."

"Better than _I," _Mokuba said, his mind going in so many directions that he couldn't keep track of where he was. "…Am. You know. You think you're better than I _am._ That's…how the sentence should go. So, you say better than _I, _and you _can _take out the last word, if you want…it does sound kind of weird, though, so maybe you should leave the 'am' on there just so you don't sound—"

"Shut up!"

Mokuba gave the boy a sunny smile that he didn't feel. His brother told him, all the time, to never let the enemy know they have you cornered. It took everything he had to keep from running. "Just being helpful. You don't want to go judging how smart people are and sounding dumb, do you? It doesn't really work. Just makes you sound…well, dumb."

"What'd you call me?"

"Nothing," Mokuba said. "I don't know your name. What should I call you? Can I call you Spanky? I saw a dog once named Spanky. Your face kind of reminds me of his, and you kind of have this…droopy look, that looks like—there! Right there, that's it. You should get a mirror, so you can see." He looked at the blond boy with a kind of wide-eyed innocence that was clearly disarming.

The boy sputtered, fists and teeth clenching. "I…I…you looking for a beating, rich boy?"

"Well, no, I don't think so," Mokuba offered, shrugging. "But, I mean, if you want, we could work something out. But before we do that, do you mind if I make a call?" He smiled again, sheepishly. "I just have to see if my brother will let me. I'm sure it'll be okay, though. Let me call him and ask."

"You think I'm scared of your _brother?"_

"Well, _no," _Mokuba said, sounding shocked. "No, of course not. Why would you be? I mean, all you're asking is to beat me up. Why should he care? You don't think he'll do anything, do you? That's just silly. Hold on, just let me call him. You can talk to him, if you wants. Maybe you could see if _he _wants to join in. I bet he'd like that."

The boy sputtered again, looking halfway between furious and terrified.

"I know a thing or two about beatings," Mokuba offered offhandedly, pretending to sift through his pack and wondering what the hell he was doing. His entire body was flooding with adrenaline. "My brother says I should. You know, just in case I run into people who want to hurt me. People do that, you know. Try to hurt me. Isn't that crazy? Bullies and stuff. You don't…know anybody like that…do you?"

He leveled a somber, earnest (and slightly manic) stare on the boy. "You don't…know any bullies…do you? I don't like bullies. They're mean." He put on a grin again, showing his teeth. "But you aren't like that. Are you? 'Cuz…if you _were_…well, that wouldn't be good. I might think you were threatening me. And…that's really bad. People get in trouble for threatening me. Did you know that? Yeah. Do you know why that is?"

The boy was clearly unsure of himself now. His eyes jerked around in every direction, looking for a way to escape. Mokuba's grin twisted into a scowl reminiscent of his brother's. He rose from his seat, and did something he'd never done before.

"Because people know me," he said, his voice suddenly hard, and sharp. "People know me, and people like me. I'm not one of those little bookworms or whatever you think I am. My name _means _something to people, and I don't think you want to know how many kids in this yard right now would jump at the chance to impress me."

Any pretense of pleasantness was replaced by cold fury. "You call me rich boy like it's some kind of insult. Well, you know what? I _am_ rich. I'm richer than you'll ever be. I'm richer than _God. _I don't like using money to get what I want, but I'll do it. I wonder how many people here would want to be my bodyguard for a day. Or a week. Or a _month_. What do you think? Should we find out? You think you're tough, yeah, but do you think you can take on ten, fifteen, twenty people at once?"

The blond boy gaped at him, face going pale.

"Or maybe I _should _call my brother. Maybe I _should _tell him that you _piss me off. _I wonder what he'd do. We've had some problems recently, with people like you. He's kind of jumpy about _threats to my safety _right now. So go ahead and strut around here if you want. I don't care. But see what happens if you mess with me again. I'll grind your stupid face into the dirt. Now, if you want to try that, go ahead. But even _if_ you win, I have backup. I have backup like you wouldn't _believe. _So…do you _really_ want to play this game with me?"

Mokuba sat back down, folded his hands in front of him again, and waited, locking eyes with the boy with the spiked blond hair. His teeth were clenched, and he was shaking. The boy tried to stammer out a reply, but found that he couldn't. He turned, and all but bolted away.

Mokuba let out his breath in a heave. Glancing up, he caught a glimpse of Rebecca, not too far away. She was watching the boy run, laughing. A real smile rose on the young Kaiba's face, and he settled down to finally eat his lunch.

He didn't bother to look up as Connor Brinkley approached. He said, in an angry snarl that would have made even Seto flinch, "Has anybody thought that maybe the reason I'm over here by myself is because I don't _want _to talk to anybody?"

He didn't see the tentative smile on Connor's face wither away, didn't see the fear in Connor's eyes, the disappointment; he didn't see the boy turn away, crestfallen and lonely, and shuffle back to where he'd been sitting before finally working up the nerve to talk to the only other boy his own age he'd seen at his new school.

Mokuba began to eat the tuna salad sandwich his brother had made for him, thinking angrily that there was a reason his only friends were half a decade older than he was.

Kids were stupid.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"I hate children."

Seto actually laughed. "I won't state the obvious, kid. What happened? You look too much like me for comfort right now." Mokuba stole a glance at his brother's face and saw, beneath the calm, amused façade was worry. He managed a smile.

"Just some moron at lunch. Nothing I can't handle. I think he wet himself."

Seto smirked, but there wasn't much humor in it. "I see. Do you think it will be a problem?"

"No," Mokuba said, somehow managing to sound confident. "I wasn't the kind of target he wanted. I scared the snot out of him. He'll leave me alone. Don't worry, Niisama, I didn't threaten to have him killed or something. And if he tries to make something up about me threatening him, I have witnesses. He started it."

Seto looked at his brother's face, searching, for a moment. After a while, he nodded. "I see," he said. "Well, if you're certain. I'll leave this in your hands, Mokuba." He didn't say that he was proud, but his expression did, and the boy's mood brightened. He smiled.

Mokuba sat on the couch as Seto settled into a chair and removed his laptop from his briefcase. "Aside from this…lunch incident…you like the school?"

"Yes," Mokuba said. "It's nice, and my teachers are…" he chuckled, "…sufficient. I think Miss Lorwell is my favorite. She's really nice. She said that we're going to have a book report soon, and that we should all start looking around for one. She said we can't pick something easy, either. We have to show her what we plan to read before she'll let us turn it in."

Seto's lips curved. "Is that right…?" he murmured.

"Mm-hm. She said that we have to give her more than just, like, a summary, too. She said to dig, and give insight. You know, symbols and stuff. What stuff means. Why it's important. Why the author wrote it. Things like that."

Seto nodded. "Good. If you want to look at the books in my office, go ahead. If you don't find anything there, we can head to the library if you'd like. You'd do well to pick something quickly."

"I know. Thanks, Niisama."

Seto nodded again.

Mokuba thought that it was kind of unsettling how easily Seto managed to maintain a conversation while working. It was like his brother had two minds, and he set one to focus on his eyes, what he was reading, and set the other to his ears. Most people considered it rude that Seto so often did this, thinking that he wasn't paying attention. And, like most things people criticized him for, Seto didn't care. The ironic thing was, though, that when he _did _pay full attention to someone, that person was usually on edge and unable to concentrate, like he was a judge and they were auditioning for something.

Mokuba wondered what people expected him to do.

"Did you get bullied in school, Niisama?" he asked suddenly. "You know…when you went. Before…_him."_

Seto raised an eyebrow. "I suppose one would call it that. I was…frowned upon, if that's what you're getting at. I suppose it was no different than it is now. Except now, the bullies are bigger, and generally less intelligent." Mokuba laughed. "I'm of the opinion that there are only two types of students," Seto continued. "Those who attack, and those who are attacked. There are a very select few who are neither; a small enough number that it's statistically irrelevant. You will find that anywhere you go, people will attempt to step on you. The best defense against that is apathy. Don't let yourself care about them, about what they think and about what they say."

"So…did I do it wrong?" Mokuba asked.

Seto raised an eyebrow. "Not at all. I do not mean to say that you should not defend yourself. _My_ defense is not the only defense. Your reaction to this boy, this…moron, you say, was more than sufficient. You have shown him that you refuse to be attacked. You did fine. But this boy confronted you directly. You staked your claim. What I mean is to not allow yourself to take offense. If you hear someone talking badly about you, for example…"

"I should ignore it."

"Precisely."

"That's what you did. What you…_do."_

Seto nodded. "Yes."

"Was it bad? For you? I mean, since you're so smart."

Seto chuckled. "Don't sell yourself short, kiddo."

"Well, yeah, but…but _you_…I mean…"

Seto looked at his brother, at the near-worshipful look on his face, and smiled. But he said, in a somber, serious tone, "You're as much a genius as I've ever been, Mokuba, if you want to use that word." He sounded like he didn't. "Do not hold yourself to my standards. My standards were forced on me. You know that."

Mokuba's face slackened a bit, eyes darkening.

"My…talent, I suppose you might call it, is that I have always been quick to learn. That does not make you any less intelligent than I, for taking longer. You may think that, since I was taking college courses by twelve, you should do the same. Don't. Please, don't."

"…Okay."

Seto's smile widened. "It was…bad. I have never been social. I have never felt a desire to reach out to others, to connect with my peers. I stood outside of them willingly, and for that, they were insulted. You do not…usually…do that." Mokuba saw that Seto knew about his recent trouble with crowds, with people in general, and it bothered him. "You have an advantage, Mokuba, over the boy that I used to be. You are assertive. Passionate. When you wish to connect with another, you do so easily."

Mokuba smiled. "Now you're just flattering me."

Seto shrugged. "What I mean to say, in this impromptu lecture I seem to be giving, is that I advanced more rapidly because I never cared to entertain myself. I never cared to experience my childhood, such as it was. It was…unimportant to me."

Mokuba thought suddenly that part of the reason Seto had sacrificed his childhood was because of Mokuba himself, and felt a pang of guilt that was only tempered by the fact that he could tell Seto was being truthful about it being unimportant. He quite literally hadn't cared, and Mokuba had a feeling that if he hadn't had to raise his brother, Seto would have simply filled his time with more studying.

Seto stood, and as he walked past Mokuba he ruffled the boy's hair. "Don't forget to enjoy yourself, Mokuba. You'll have plenty of time to grow into a proper cynic when you reach your twenties."

Mokuba watched his brother head into the kitchen, likely for some coffee (if Seto had one vice, it was caffeine), and found he felt better. His frustration at the world had passed, and he was looking forward to tomorrow.

And people called Seto a pessimist.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

Enid Brinkley did not like to think of herself as overprotective.

She had taught her son well, she thought, and allowed him to live his own life, make his own decisions and his own mistakes. She didn't coddle him; or at least, she didn't _think _she did. She liked to think that she and Leo had done well in setting a good example for Connor to live by, and she didn't want to spoil that by…well, spoiling him.

So no, she was not overprotective.

But that didn't stop a sudden, bright surge of anger and desperation from glinting in her eyes when she saw her only son wander listlessly into the front room of their home after school. He was dejected, his head low and his vision was locked on his face. She had expected, of course, that being younger than the rest of his classmates, he would have trouble fitting in. But she had been _so sure _that by entering him into a school more suited to his abilities, he would find himself in a better environment than before, when he'd been bullied incessantly as an outsider.

She had hoped so fervently that transferring him to a new school would make it _better. _Not worse. Yet here she stood, watching her little angel just as lonely and withdrawn as he had ever been, and it took a long time for her to remind herself that he was getting old enough that a hug and a popsicle wouldn't banish the frown on his face.

"Connor," she offered tentatively. "Baby, what's wrong? What happened?"

Connor shrugged as he slumped down onto the couch. "Nothin'."

"You can't expect me to believe that," Enid said, sitting down with him. She ruffled his hair and pulled him into a one-armed hug. "Come on. Out with it, little man. What's bothering you?"

"I…it's…"

"You don't like your new school, do you?"

"No! It's not that! I…I don't mind the _school, _I mean…my teachers are nice. But…but it…it's all the same. The rest of it. The other kids. It's all…just…" Then he looked down at his lap and fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "…Nothing."

Enid understood.

She said, "Just give it some time. You're the new kid, remember? It'll take some adjusting. But things will change. I'm sure of it. And if it doesn't…well, we'll figure out what to do. But for now, you just need to get used to things." Connor shrugged again. He didn't sound convinced. "Now, how about I fix you up a snack while you get your homework done, hm?"

"Apple slices aren't _snacks, _Mom," Connor said, cracking a smile. "They're like vitamins. They don't count."

"I won't have that kind of talk about the produce in _my _kitchen, Mister. Now go. Set up in the dining room." Connor got up, and the smile remained on his face, but Enid could still tell that something was on his mind, and it was going to take more than a few jokes to get rid of it.

She had wanted, more than anything, to shield her boy from bullies. But she knew that wasn't the right way to handle it. She couldn't transfer Connor to a new school every time someone hurt his feelings.

It seemed like now was the time to _confront _the issue.

And that thought made _her _feel dejected and withdrawn.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

A few days later, Mokuba talked to Rebecca again in homeroom; she thought it was amusing that the blond boy with the spiked hair had been sitting all the way at the other end of the room ever since Mokuba's performance in the courtyard.

"Guess you did a number on him, huh?" Rebecca asked.

Mokuba smiled, blushing slightly. "Maybe."

Rebecca laughed. "I saw that. He looked scared enough to pass out. Gee, I wonder if maybe you took advantage of…a certain relative? Maybe some…financial advantages he happens to have? You wouldn't do that, would you?" She was grinning.

Mokuba shrugged. "It worked. I think. If it didn't, I guess I'll find out later."

Rebecca's grin faltered. "You aren't worried that he might get some courage back? That he might try to get back at you for it?"

"I've had some training," Mokuba said. "Niisama kind of insisted. I'm not, you know, _awesome_ or anything yet, but I'm pretty sure I can handle that guy. And even if I can't, he won't make it too long afterward. I warned him of that, too."

"You know better than probably any of us that there are scumbags in this city," Rebecca said, outright frowning now. "What if he…you know…? Tries to take it…well, if he thinks he can't beat you, and he's scared to try because of who you'll tell…what if…?"

Mokuba shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. His face suddenly hardened. "Look at what happened to the last guy who tried to kill me."

Rebecca's eyebrows rose. "…Good point."

A semblance of a smile appeared on his face again. "You heard about that," he said.

"I got an email that night," Rebecca said. "It was a link to a live feed from the mansion. I don't know if you knew, but…he was filming it. I guess, maybe…he wanted the world to know he'd won." She looked uncomfortable now, unsure of whether or not she should be telling him this.

Mokuba frowned. "I wondered how people knew about it so quickly," he admitted. "Nobody mentioned anything about filming to me." He thought about this for a moment then, noticing Rebecca's worried look, shrugged and added, "But I guess it doesn't matter. Niisama won, anyway. So, joke's on him."

Rebecca looked relieved, but still uncomfortable. "…Yeah."

Mokuba glanced down at the book on his desk, read the final paragraph of the chapter he'd been reading, and slipped it into his pack. He took out another book and opened it. Rebecca, likely eager to change the subject, asked, "What's that?"

Mokuba lifted it. "Some journalist from San Francisco wrote Niisama's biography."

"He's only…what, nineteen? Not too long a biography."

Mokuba looked at the book in his hand, which was called _The Kaiba Dynasty, _and smirked. "It's kind of funny you say that. The stuff I've read all starts around the time Niisama and me were taken to the orphanage. Nobody really has any details about before then. So really, they're only writing about eight years. But Niisama went through a lot, and people always seem to find a new way to talk about it."

Rebecca frowned thoughtfully. "I guess so. How much of this stuff have you read?"

Mokuba shrugged. "As much as I can find. I've made corrections in a couple essays. The writers were…surprised to hear from me." He slipped a bookmark into the book and set it on his desk. "Niisama doesn't pay attention to his reputation. He says if he did, he'd spend too much time correcting people and wouldn't have any time to work. So he kind of leaves it to me."

"So you're, like, what? His PR rep?"

"Kind of."

Rebecca laughed. "Strictly voluntary, I'm sure. You do this for fun, don't you?"

"I wouldn't call it _fun, _really. It's interesting, though. Seeing who's right, who's way off. I saw a couple articles that said I was his sister once." Rebecca snickered. "A few think I'm his cousin, some think we're not even related. One called me his son." Mokuba's smile fully returned at this, and Rebecca could tell that he rather liked _that_ idea. "Kind of weird, though. I mean, I was born when he was _eight. _But…"

"You two are really close, aren't you?"

Mokuba's smile softened, and he nodded.

"Amazing," Rebecca said. "He comes off as this…_shark. _You know? Some…primal predator in a black suit. I've met him before. He was…nicer, I guess, to me. Maybe 'cuz I'm younger than most of the people he deals with. But still…kind of mean. But _you_…well, I guess he _has _to have a heart, somewhere in there." She looked at him for a while, then winked. "You're pretty cool, Kaiba. I'm glad you came here."

Mokuba blinked, and before he could come up with a reply, the bell rang for first period, and everybody milled out of the room. He sat there for a moment, and as he stood up and gathered his things, he grinned.

Today was a good day.

He hoped.

* * *

**END.**


	23. Trouble on the Eastern River

_**For those of you who will read this multiple times, I apologize. Feel free to ignore this if you've already seen it, and move on to the chapter.**_

_**Here in my neck of the woods, it is now the 9**__**th**__** day of February, in the year 2012. Ten years ago today, I came across Fanfiction-dot-Net. I proceeded to publish "Lonely, Broken Hero," the first story I wrote that ever felt complete. It was inspired by a song, written for the Square-Enix game "Chrono Trigger," and marked the beginning of a lifelong passion.**_

_**Since February 9**__**th**__**, 2002, I have had the honor of meeting some of the greatest people on earth. These people have given me 5,885 reviews, thousands of Favorites, and over 1.8 million hits across 40 projects. These people have supported me, cheered for me, informed me, criticized me, and helped me embark on some of the most memorable journeys of my life. I never would have made it without them.**_

_**To celebrate this illustrious anniversary, and to thank you for being the best audience an author could ever ask for, I have written extra chapters for each of my 8 ongoing projects. I present them to you now, and humble myself before you. Were it not for you, these stories never would have come into being, or lasted nearly as long as they have.**_

_**Thank you again. You all have changed my life.**_

_**Here's to another decade of adventure and exploration.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

Miss Lorwell's lectures were a comfortable routine.

She seemed to be one of those teachers who didn't believe in wasting time. She was quite adept at making things interesting, and she wasn't averse to keeping her classes light and fun, but she also didn't let her students get out of hand. She had a way about her, something Mokuba couldn't really pinpoint, that made even the most boisterous of class clowns quite frightened of crossing her.

"I've been keeping to the textbook these first few weeks," she was saying now, "to allow you the time to read whatever book you've chosen for your report, which I remind you is due after the break. After you come back, we'll begin reading 'To Kill a Mockingbird.'"

Miss Lorwell stopped to allow the exclamations and lamentations of most of her students to quiet down. She looked around at them all with an expression on her face that clearly said: "Are you quite finished?"

"We have to read _another _book?" someone asked.

"I know," Miss Lorwell said, waving a nonchalant hand. "It was quite a shock to me, too. What _were _they thinking, assigning such ludicrous work in a literature class? This curriculum is ridiculous. Shall I talk to the principal about maybe teaching you all how to play _Starcraft _at a competitive level? I hear it's a _sport_ in South Korea."

Mokuba couldn't help it. He laughed.

Joanna Lorwell was _definitely _his favorite.

She smiled at Mokuba as the rest of the class joined in laughing. "I thought _you _might like that," she said. Mokuba beamed at her. "Now," she continued after the class had calmed down, "as I said, we won't start reading 'Mockingbird' until your book reports are handed in. I want you all to have the best report possible, and that means I don't want to hear the excuse, 'But I had to focus on that _other _book.' Some of you may have trouble with 'Mockingbird.' In fact, I all but guarantee it for a couple of you."

"Does it have to be typed?" someone asked. "The report, I mean."

"I would certainly prefer it," Miss Lorwell said. "Double-spaced, 12-point font. Arial or Times New Roman. I _don't _want to see Courier. Yes, I've run into that trick before. I'm wise to you all. If you can't find access to a computer, then I _will _accept handwritten. However, points will be deducted if I have trouble reading anyone's handwriting. So be careful. And use _pen."_

Several hands that had shot up in the air lowered.

"How long does it have to be?"

"I expect at least three pages, front-side only."

Several other questions arose, most attempting to find some way to cheat, but Mokuba didn't pay attention to those. Seto would no doubt look over his brother's report before allowing him to turn it in, and any of the tricks being mentioned by his classmates would offend the elder Kaiba. Seto didn't appreciate shortcuts, and certainly didn't let them slide.

Mokuba could already hear his brother's voice, low and disbelieving, saying, "Do you seriously intend to turn this in?" or, "Did you think I wouldn't _catch_ this?"or—heaven forbid—a simple, quiet, bitterly disappointed, "I expected better of you," as he headed for his office.

No. Mokuba would do this the right way. It would be quicker, anyway, and…less painful.

The last thing Seto needed right now was disappointment.

The last thing Seto _ever _needed was disappointment.

The lesson continued, and Mokuba sank comfortably into taking notes, as his brother had taught him. His pen scratched across his notebook nearly independent of his mind, and yet again, he didn't notice the boy sitting next to him, tossing quick, fearful glances at him every so often. Mokuba remained blissfully unaware of his latest…admirer for the remainder of the period. It wasn't until the class was dismissed for lunch and he was putting his things into his bag that he even matched Connor Brinkley's name to his face.

"Connor?" Miss Lorwell asked, in a soft tone of voice that might have led Mokuba to believe she was talking to her own son. "Connor, could you come up to my desk for a moment? I'd like to speak with you."

For the first time, Mokuba saw the boy who sat next to him; the blond boy with disheveled hair and despondent eyes.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"Y-Yes, Miss Lorwell?" Connor asked shyly. He looked distinctly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his teacher's eyes, and Mokuba supposed that he couldn't blame him; her face was rather severe, much more so than usual, and his first thought was that Connor wasn't one of her best students; perhaps she just wanted to talk to the blond about his homework?

But Mokuba didn't think that likely.

Miss Lorwell leaned forward on her desk. "I know that you don't talk all that much in class," she said gently. "I guess maybe this isn't your best subject, is it? I bet you're better at math and science, aren't you?"

This caused the slightest of smiles to cross Connor's face. Mokuba had the impression that Connor hadn't been smiling much lately. It looked like one of Seto's smiles, almost physically painful like he hadn't practiced it much. Although it looked as if this boy's discomfort came from fear or sadness, rather than Seto's typical irritation. Connor Brinkley certainly didn't look angry. He looked like he wanted to bolt from the room.

"Yes, Ma'am," Connor said finally, in a quiet little voice that made Mokuba blink.

Miss Lorwell smiled, too. "I thought so. Still, I can't help but notice you've been…well, subdued. Are you okay, Connor? Is something the matter? Is something happening here at school that I should be concerned about? Or at home, maybe?"

Connor looked aghast at her. "No! Nothing like that! I mean…it was…I'm…just…kinda shy, I guess. Maybe." Even Mokuba, only paying cursory attention like he was, could hear the blatant falsehood in the blond's voice now.

He stopped, seemingly deciding that if he kept going, he'd say too much. Miss Lorwell frowned.

"…I see. Are you sure?"

Connor stammered to come up with a reply. Mokuba felt bad for the poor kid. Connor looked younger than even _he_ did, and Mokuba wondered if he hadn't skipped _two _grades to come to this school. He also wondered if Seto had ever looked this pitifully young when _he'd_ been in school. "I…I…"

Miss Lorwell looked sympathetic. "Okay, Connor. I see that you don't want to say anything more. I do hope you'll come to me, or another member of the faculty, if something _does _happen. I won't tolerate my students enduring any kind of mistreatment."

Something about the way she said it, maybe the word "tolerate," reminded Mokuba of his brother. Maybe that was why he liked Miss Lorwell so much. A lot of her mannerisms were of the same no-nonsense severity that Mokuba found so familiar. Of course, there was a lot about Joanna Lorwell that _wasn't _like Seto, but there was enough to be comforting.

Mokuba watched as Connor nodded, saying that he would make sure to tell her and not meaning a word of it, then turned away and slipped out of the room. Mokuba frowned, confused. He looked at his teacher.

Miss Lorwell was looking back at him. "He kept looking at you, every few seconds or so, all through class. Of course, I've come to the conclusion that people often do that. You seem to be quite popular. But it certainly wasn't with admiration that Mister Brinkley was watching you."

Mokuba frowned. "…What are you saying?" he asked, straining not to sound defensive.

Miss Lorwell shrugged. "I'm saying that whatever is going on with that poor boy, it has to do with you somehow. I don't know how, and I don't intend to ask. It just seems like a situation you might want to look into. Whether you know it or not, it has to do with you. I'd bet my job on it."

Mokuba's frown deepened. "I…I see," he said.

He left.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

Mokuba followed his classmate out into the hall.

He wasn't sure what it was he planned to do. It was disconcerting to realize that he really didn't have the faintest clue what he _should _do. He knew what he _would _have done, back at Oakwood: he would have offered to help. Mokuba liked helping people. He knew better than to say this in front of his brother, but he had come to think of it as an obligation. If he was in a position to help someone, then he thought that he should. Seto, of course, would have been offended by such an idea. Mokuba knew that in this situation, Seto wouldn't have bothered to approach Connor Brinkley at all.

"I have had no interaction with this boy," he would have said. "_I _know that I have nothing to do with whatever grievances he has. If he thinks I do, that's his problem. Let _him _deal with it."

Mokuba just didn't think that way.

Connor had reached his locker, seeming to be doing his best to keep his eyes on the lock as Mokuba stepped up to him. The black-haired boy opened his mouth to speak, and was halfway between confused and irritated to find that he had no words. He couldn't think of what to say. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and hung his head, turned around and walked away feeling sheepish. For the first time, he started to understand that his new aversion to strangers was affecting him _too _much.

When the pack of older students began to converge on the small boy's location, looking like hyenas on the prowl, Mokuba turned to look over his shoulder and felt his heart seize up in his chest. His body suddenly refused to move, and sweat broke out on his brow.

They started talking, and even though Mokuba was too far away now to hear what they were saying—they were almost whispering—he could tell that they weren't having a pleasant conversation. Connor, for his part, didn't look frightened so much as he looked…disappointed. That wasn't to say he _wasn't _frightened, not really, only that resignation and familiarity took precedence over it. This was nothing new to Connor Brinkley; but that didn't make it fun.

It wasn't until one of the boys, who had a bandana covering his hair even though it was against the school's dress code, picked Connor up by the collar of his jacket and pinned him up against his locker that fear actually showed up on the boy's soft, pale face.

Mokuba felt his breath catch in his throat, and panic began to well up like it was trying to escape right along with the younger boy. The young Kaiba began to shake. Memories that he'd thought were buried rushed up into his mind's eye: a soft, dark little grin on a face that was all too comfortable with it; cool, meticulous arrogance; thin hands with a grip far too strong for their spidery fingers; the freezing bite of gunmetal.

Someone shut a locker behind the black-haired boy with a reverberating _crash _that echoed in the air, and Mokuba let out a squeaking little whimper as lightning jolted through his body. Connor Brinkley was looking at him now. Mokuba knew well the look in those eyes, recognized it all too easily. A distant part of him said that he could help, that he _should _help. That it was his solemn _duty_ as a halfway decent human being to help.

The pack of bullies didn't seem to notice that Mokuba was even there. He could have gotten the jump on them. He could have pulled the same card as he had on the kid with the spiked hair. He could have called for a teacher; he could have called for a hall monitor. He could have called his brother.

But Mokuba did none of those things.

He turned away again, and almost sprinted down the hall toward the courtyard.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

"You're not looking too good."

Mokuba blinked, surprised, and lifted his head. Rebecca Hawkins was standing beside the table—in a far corner of the yard—where Mokuba had taken to stationing himself. Her group of friends was nowhere to be seen. She saw him looking around and smiled.

"Mind if I sit here?" she asked, gesturing to the seat across from him.

Mokuba nodded. "S-Sure. I mean…no. I don't mind. Go ahead."

Rebecca sat down, set down her backpack, and pulled out a Tupperware container. As she did this, Mokuba was reminded that _he _had food, too, something he'd actually forgotten, and he reached for his own bag. He said, "How's…uh, how's it going?"

Rebecca smirked as she pulled a slice of watermelon out of her container. "You _are _out of it today, aren't you?" Mokuba looked at her. "I guess maybe you haven't learned _everything _from your brother. It's written on your face. You're upset about something."

Mokuba frowned. He didn't respond.

"It's not porcupine-boy, is it?" she asked.

"No." He managed a chuckle that sounded as authentic as voice-box software. "No, not him. I guess…well…I dunno, really. I just…"

Rebecca raised a curious eyebrow. "Wow," she said. Mokuba flinched and looked embarrassed, and her smirk softened into a sympathetic smile. "I didn't think it would be him. You wouldn't let some moron like that guy get you _this _hot and bothered." At the strange look from Mokuba, Rebecca shrugged. "Grandpa says that all the time. Guess I picked it up."

Mokuba smiled, but eventually grimaced and looked away. "…Well, somebody in my literature class is…having problems. He's…quiet. Like, quiet enough that the teacher noticed. And…and…she says it's got something to do with…to do with me. Right? So I…go out into the hallway and he's…these guys come up to him. Bullies. And they're roughing him up, doing their standard strutting crap, and I…I…"

Mokuba couldn't finish the thought.

Rebecca frowned. "Brought up bad memories, didn't it?"

The black-haired boy blinked. "What…?"

"Forgive me for saying this, Mokuba," Rebecca said, "but…I'm surprised you only went under the radar for as long as you did. I saw that recording from von Schroeder, remember. All I'm saying is…if it'd been me, I'd be an absolute wreck. What you went through, that was _trauma. _You shouldn't feel bad because it's still affecting you."

Part of Mokuba wanted to cry denial. He wanted to snap at her to quit talking about stuff she didn't understand. Part of him wanted to say that that had nothing to do with it, that he was a Kaiba, that it was nothing out of the ordinary and that he _wasn't _bothered by it anymore. But the rest of him looked at her with new appreciation as he realized that she—like Seto—could see things in him that he couldn't. The rest of him realized that she was right, she was _damn _right, and it was nothing but bravado making him feel defensive.

But he said, "…I don't…I don't know if…that's it."

"Well, if it isn't, it should be." Rebecca leaned forward. "I hope you don't take offense. I know I don't know you all that well, you _or _your brother, but…don't go wasting time feeling ashamed of yourself, all right? You're a Kaiba." Mokuba stared at her. "We all know your brother _owns _this city. But it's not just him. You're like...an _icon. _Kids in this city? Not just one or two, pretty much everybody…they about worship you." She smirked. "Cara? And Tisha? And everybody else I know, they're jealous. Not of you. Of _me."_

"Your friends?" Mokuba asked. She nodded. "Why would they…?"

"I can talk to you," Rebecca said. "You _let _me talk to you. I'm, like, part of the _in _crowd or whatever. Look, the point is, you're not _just _Kaiba's brother. You've played Capmon, you've won tournaments, you've been on TV. People see that, and it's not just the adults that pay attention. They read the stories about what you've done, what you've been through. Newspaper articles and videos and…whatever else."

Mokuba frowned. "And that…means what, exactly? I'm some kind of hero, now?"

Rebecca seemed bound and determined to make Mokuba feel better. "To plenty of people, _yes. _You are. You're a kid, younger than most if not _all _of the students here, yet you've seen and done things that most of us can't _dream _of. I mean, I'm a tournament duelist, and I've had my share of the spotlight, but _I _never snuck out of Pegasus Crawford's castle. _I _never got hung outside of a helicopter or piloted a _jet. _To say nothing of the…most recent…well…" she drifted off.

Mokuba mulled this over.

A sudden mischievous twinkle shone in Rebecca's eyes. "I bet you've read a lot of articles and forums and things on your brother," she said, sounding like she wanted to change the subject, and he nodded. "Well, you'd be surprised what people come up with when they _aren't _going for the truth. You ever heard of celebrity fanfiction?"

Mokuba's frown deepened. "Uh…no? People _do _that? Like stories for anime and videogames and movies and stuff?"

"Oh, yes," Rebecca said with relish, nodding. "But see, some of them like to wax poetic on real people. Famous people only, of course. Nobody wants to read a story about some guy's next-door neighbor and his pet cat. But people like you? Like Kaiba? Oh, _God."_

Mokuba scrunched up his nose. "People…make up stories about me?"

"All the time!" Rebecca said, grinning broadly. "You and Kaiba, and Joey Wheeler, and Yugi, and the whole gang! Even _me _sometimes. _Those _are funny. I've left some comments on some of them, actually. But yeah, you and Kaiba are…especially popular."

"Why…am I suddenly nervous?"

"Oh, you should be. I'm not even sure why I'm telling you, except maybe I just want to torture you. I mean, some people are actually pretty good at it. They get things…mostly accurate. But _some _people…oh, my Lord, if your brother ever saw some of this stuff, he'd start murdering people." Rebecca began to giggle madly, looking for the first time since Mokuba had met her like she was actually twelve years old. She said, "Before you ask, I'm not telling. I'm not having a direct hand in getting one of my best friends thrown in prison. Or assassinated."

The bell rang for fifth period, and Mokuba realized he hadn't actually eaten any of the food Seto had packed for him. He began to put everything back into his bag, suddenly so preoccupied that the name Connor Brinkley had no meaning. He stared at Rebecca as they both stood up. "What are you talking about?" he asked quickly. "What kind of stuff could people make up that _Niisama _would get mad about?"

Rebecca laughed again. "Let's just say some people like to forget how young you are…and that you and Kaiba are related."

A beat of silence.

Mokuba Kaiba decided that he would never use the internet again.

Ever.

* * *

**END.**

* * *

_**Is this breaking the fourth wall? I'm pretty sure it is.**_

_**When I started writing, there was still a Celebrity section on the side. It's been taken down since, and I think I understand why, but I can't help but think the same thing would exist here in this world. It won't do to say they're famous and popular if I don't prove it, right? I also wanted to comment on some of the more…controversial ships in the waters that make up YGO romance.**_

_**You know who you are.**_

_**This was a fun chapter to work on; effective? Well, that's to be determined by you guys. I hope you enjoyed it, sporadic as it might be.**_

_**I'll see you all next time.**_


	24. Yagami no Koushi, Kaiba no Souzoku

_**The title for this chapter is my rough transliteration of Japanese: "Yagami's Heir, Kaiba's Inheritance."**_

_** It's been mentioned that the name "Yagami" might have symbolic relevance to the Death Note series; I just wanted to say, if I haven't already, that I was using the name Yagami as the Kaibas' birth surnames before ever reading Death Note. I know that this is the internet, and you have no reason to believe me, but it honestly is a coincidence. Now, the fact that I use the very specific characters (**__**夜神**__**) to spell that name is symbolic. But the name itself wasn't intended to be.**_

_** This is something of a follow-up to the breaking of the fourth wall that I started last chapter, but there's more to it than just that. I strive not to be a one-trick pony…brony…something. Whatever. I'm bad with memes.**_

_** Have fun with this chapter; I tried to make it light.**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

_**They, and by "they" I mean every adult I meet, keep smiling at me.**_

_** They coo and caw and swoon and they tell me what a strong little boy I am. They ask Father to borrow me, so that maybe their children will learn from my example. What an angel I am, what a perfect little saint.**_

_** I hate it. I hate it because they never did that when Mother was still alive. They never took any notice of how wonderful I was when Mother was here, because then I was just another little boy. But now that I only have one parent and a little brother to take care of, suddenly I'm perfect.**_

_** I'm not sure what they think they're doing to help me. Mother never coddled me. When I was upset about something, Mother would listen, then instruct. Mother knew what to do. She didn't put on a fake smile and tell me everything was going to be okay. When Mokie was going to be born, she told me that life would be tougher. She told me with a perfectly straight face that we would all have to make sacrifices to make sure Mokie could grow up properly.**_

_** Father doesn't sugar-coat either. When I ask him a question, he tells me the answer. When he has something to tell me, he tells me. Neither of them ever lied to me. But I know without thinking that the other adults are all full of themselves. They think I'm too stupid to know that they're lying. Well, the joke's on them, then. I know better.**_

_** "Everything will get better," they say, and "You're so strong to move on after such a horrible tragedy," and "How lucky your brother is to have such a strong role model," and all this other pity-party garbage that doesn't mean anything because even **__**they**__** don't believe it. Everything might get better compared to **__**now,**__**but it will never be better than it used to be. I'm not strong because I **__**haven't**__** moved on. Mokie might have a strong role model. Mother did used to say that I'd make a good example for him. But even if he does have me, he doesn't have her. So no, Mokie isn't lucky, unless you count the fact that he won't ever remember what he lost.**_

_** I'm sick of it. Mother used to tell me that there were plenty of good people in the world, and I don't want to say she was wrong, because she was never wrong about anything she told me. But I do think that the good people she was talking about don't live here, because so far, all I see are stupid people, lazy people, and liars.**_

_** Their smiles don't mean anything. Their words of encouragement don't mean anything.**_

_** Mokie's smile is the only smile I can trust.**_

_** When Mokie smiles, he looks like Mother.**_

* * *

"Bubba ma' dee-ner!"

"I'm _making _dinner, Mokie. _Making."_

"May-_een."_

Seto smiled despite himself as he began to chop carrots. "Close enough."

"May-een dee-ner!"

Seto took out an extra carrot and began to peel it over the garbage can. Mokuba, laughing in his high chair, watched him with wide, sparkling eyes. The toddler pointed. "Ca-wit!" he declared. Seto smiled again, and chopped the bright orange vegetable into small strips. He walked over and handed one to his brother.

"Here," Seto said. "Eat this, and calm down. You'll fall over if you keep rocking around like that."

"I _naw-t _fa'ober," Mokuba said. He shook his head as if reprimanding his elder sibling for daring to suggest such a thing. "Siwwy bubba." Seto ruffled the boy's hair and turned back to the counter. Mokuba munched his snack loudly, drumming on the tray with his free hand.

Seto went through the various steps methodically. He found cooking soothing. Measurements and precision, clear-cut answers and honest results. Like science. Like mathematics. Once he had the answer—the recipe—right, that was the end of it. There was no guessing, no worrying, no looking back and wondering if you did it right. Not like…well…

He turned back over his shoulder and watched Mokuba amuse himself by beating on his tray. He was smiling. Mokuba was always smiling. But then…their father smiled, too, sometimes, and it never really seemed honest. Kohaku's smiles were always sad. And Seto had to wonder if Mokuba's were sad, too. He didn't think so. Mokuba looked too much like his mother, and Yuki's smiles had _always _been happy.

Hadn't they?

The brown-haired boy with the thin face and the bright blue eyes that always made people uncomfortable these days turned back to his soup and suddenly had to fight the urge to cry. The truth was, he didn't know anymore. The answers had always seemed simple, when Yuki had told them to him. But now, she was gone. She was gone, and he couldn't ask her anymore. And none of his answers seemed to make sense anymore.

There was a book he had been reading, with a boy in it that was a little older than he was, who said, "I don't like people. They fuck me up." And the more people Seto met, the more those simple two sentences made such perfect sense that he began to believe them. Yes. That was true.

He _didn't _like people.

People were confusing.

People fucked him up.

He shook the thought out of his mind as he set the chicken into the boiling broth to cook, thinking that if he kept on like that, he would turn into his father. His rough, plodding, sardonic father, who kept himself busy by working all day because it was the only thing he knew how to do, and who only smiled when he was sad. He didn't want to do that. Because if he did, then Mokuba would turn out like _him._

He couldn't let that happen. It wasn't fair.

While he waited for the chicken, Seto began to clean up the counter, then stepped over to the sink and began washing dishes. Mokuba cried out excitedly—for some reason, watching his brother do the dishes was the height of entertainment for the youngest Yagami.

Seto didn't notice Miss Hitcher step into the kitchen until she spoke. "Just checking in," she said, and Seto looked at her. "Is everything going all right? Is Mokuba behaving?" She smiled, and Seto didn't like it. Mokuba pointed to her and called her name ("Vawwy," in Mokuba-speak) to make sure that Seto knew she was there. Miss Hitcher's smile widened. "Hello, little one," she said in a sugary sweet, sing-song voice. "Is Mokuba being a good boy for his big brother?"

"Goo'boy!" Mokuba said. "Goo'boy!"

Seto returned to his work.

"You're a good boy, too, Seto," Miss Hitcher said. "Do you know that? Your father's very proud of you. So am I." Seto didn't respond, didn't turn to look at her, and honestly didn't even hear her. He'd heard it so often from so many people who had no idea what they were talking about. He was tired of it. "…Your mother would be proud, too."

Seto flinched violently.

He suddenly wanted to be alone.

"Thank you," he said icily. He still didn't turn.

He thought he heard Miss Hitcher sigh. "…Your father will be home in a couple hours," she said, subdued. "If everything's all right, then—"

"Vawwy! Vawwy!"

"…Yes, Mokuba? What is it, dear?"

"Say we-come!" Mokuba said, in what was clearly meant to be a stern voice. Seto turned to regard his brother, who was watching their neighbor with as serious an expression as his cherubic face could muster. Miss Hitcher blinked, clearly not understanding. Mokuba groaned, and Seto let out a soft chuckle. "Bubba say tank _yew," _Mokuba continued. "Vawwy say we-come! Say! _Now."_

Seto wanted to laugh.

Miss Hitcher _did. _"Ooh…I _see. _I'm sorry, Mokuba. You're right. You're very welcome, Seto. Is that better?"

Mokuba nodded with a huff.

Miss Hitcher bowed her head and left the room. Seto was alone with his brother again.

Seto saw that Mokuba had finished his carrot and was gesturing frantically to the three other slices sitting on the counter. "Bubba! Bubba, ca-wit!" Seto turned and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. Mokuba blinked at him. "Pwease?"

Seto smiled. "Good boy."

He handed Mokuba another piece.

"Tank yew!"

"You're welcome, Mokie," Seto said, and kissed the top of his brother's head.

He went back to the sink.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

Seto wasn't sure what made him smile as he watched his brother snap a carrot stick in half with his teeth as he sat in the dining room staring at his homework. The black-haired boy chewed methodically, looking as if he were waiting for the answers to pop up in front of him.

They weren't.

He looked up. "Niisama! You're home!"

Seto shrugged, and Mokuba jumped up to hug him. "Hey, kid," he said. "Yes, yes, wonders never cease. I'm home before nightfall. Studious as ever, I see. Tell me, just how many scratches _are _on the table?"

Mokuba looked guilty. "We're…doing algebra," he said, sounding mortally offended. "There's fractions with variables and…well, yeah. It's stupid." Seto chuckled. Mokuba slunk over to the table and sat back down. Seto rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and began to wash his hands at the sink. "Cooking dinner, Niisama?"

Seto shrugged again. As he dried off his hands and stepped over to the cupboard, he said, "Aside from the stupid variable fractions, what _other _activities filled your day?"

"Rebecca sat with me at lunch. She told me something…scary."

Seto raised an eyebrow. "I'm not used to attributing that particular tone with the word 'scary.' What, exactly, did she tell you?"

"That people write stories about us."

"That's…rather obvious. I burn them constantly. Elaborate."

"I mean, like…_stories. _You know…like…" The boy gestured. "…Stuff."

"Well, thank you for explaining yourself," Seto said dryly. "I fully understand now. You're right. That _is _frightening. Which closet will _you _be hiding in?"

"_Niisama, _that's not what I mean! Like…you know that one story I wrote for that language arts assignment in fifth grade? The one with the characters from _Transformers _in it? Like that. Fanfiction. Only…"

Seto's face went blank. "Oh. _That." _He shook his head, unable to keep a shudder from taking him as he retrieved a frying pan and a large glass bowl. When he stood back up, he saw that Mokuba was staring at him. "Yes," he said, "I know about it. I've not had the…pleasure of _reading _any of it, but I've been told of it."

"You…you _know?"_

"Certainly," Seto said. "People are sick, depraved creatures, Mokuba. They'll grasp at any straw to fulfill their imaginations. I believe Detective McKinley once mentioned answering a domestic disturbance call and finding a _painting _of us in a…compromising position, I believe he called it. He was slightly green when he told me."

Mokuba looked horrified. "You're…not serious."

"Not at all," Seto said in a deadpan tone. "It's a joke. Can't you hear me laughing?"

"…I'm gonna have nightmares."

"Console yourself in knowing you've never _seen _that piece of…artwork. He has apparently been attempting homebrewed brain surgery in order to remove the memory. What would you like for dinner? Stir fry. Pork or chicken? We have both."

Mokuba looked at his brother strangely. "This doesn't…_bother_ you?"

Seto stopped mid-stride and frowned. "Bother me? Of _course_ it bothers me. But until it becomes financially feasible to own the internet, I'm faintly sure it would be impossible to _stop _these idiots. Trying would only encourage them."

"So I should ignore it."

"Unfortunately, it's the only solution I've managed to come up with that didn't involve an eventual psychotic breakdown." Seto's frown deepened. "I would wonder why Miss Hawkins would bother mentioning this in the first place."

"It just…came up."

Mokuba thought about mentioning something else Rebecca had said, _I'm not having a direct hand in getting one of my best friends thrown in prison or assassinated, _but decided against it. It would just cause more trouble, and he wasn't sure that Seto _wouldn't _do that. Now that he looked more closely at his brother's face, he saw the telltale twitch above his right eye—a phenomenon Mokuba had discovered a few years ago—that said Seto was far more irritated than he was letting on.

"Hey, Niisama?" Mokuba said suddenly. Seto grunted as he continued preparing for their evening meal. He was back in the cupboard, rummaging around and muttering about his own organization methods. Something clattered, and Seto cursed. Mokuba stifled a giggle and said, "How come you're home early?"

"I was informed by Child Protective Services that if I don't spend more time looking after you personally, I'm going to be forced legally to waive my rights as your guardian." Seto said this so quickly, with such a blank expression on his face and such a bored drawl of a voice that Mokuba actually went pale. Seto glanced up, saw the look on his brother's face, and chuckled. "That one _was _a joke, Mokuba."

Mokuba pouted. "…You need to work on your sense of humor, Niisama."

Seto shrugged. "So the good detective tells me. I've noticed a growing trend of coming home just in time to see you to bed," he said. "I thought it time to…rectify that. Besides, if I don't let those idiots in the development department do their _own _work once in a while, I'll end up having to teach them how to sharpen _pencils__."_

Mokuba grinned. He suddenly felt better. "Thanks, Niisama."

"Mm," Seto said, but the twitch was gone. He looked up from the bowl in his hand (he was running his thumb over what looked like a crack) and said, "You never did say. Pork or chicken?"

"Pork," Mokuba said. "Please."

Seto's smile returned.

And as he finally turned his attention back to his homework, Mokuba thought he heard Seto mutter something under his breath as he replaced the broken bowl with two smaller, un-cracked ones, and headed back to the counter.

It sounded like, "Good boy."

* * *

**3.**

* * *

"Since when did incest become popular?"

Detective Darren McKinley stopped moving, looking suddenly as if he'd just watched someone skin and boil his grandmother's kitten. "…I know I'm going to regret asking this, but you have this sick fascination with drawing me into your masochism without my consent. I just can't help myself. What, exactly, caused that line of thinking?"

Seto was grimacing again. He often did this. Not grimacing…well, that too. But whenever he was especially preoccupied with something, he walked. Sometimes Darren walked with him, sometimes not. He wondered if this had been a habit left over from childhood. During these walks, and only during these walks, Seto had no destination in mind. He simply moved. Darren had long since stopped asking where they were going when this happened; his friend didn't know.

"Mokuba's been talking with Rebecca Hawkins at school," he said.

"She's a duelist, right? Child prodigy?"

"Nnh," Seto said. "She entered her first tournament at eight. Anyway, she informed Mokuba recently about the…fanfiction phenomenon surrounding him and…me." He cleared his throat. Darren grimaced now, too. Seto looked at him again. "What _is_ this? Do _you _understand the appeal? Is there something I'm not seeing because I'm a part of it?"

Darren snorted laughter. "I'm going to give a _you _answer: people suck. Seto, sick people are always going to exist. There are always going to be people who see you in public and think, 'wow, he's hot,' and then they're going to see Mokuba and think, 'wow, he's cute,' and they figure that's a recipe for…" He gestured, then wiped his hands on his slacks.

Seto's face twitched. "Oh, _yes_," he said with a sneer. "That's _hot. _No wonder they do it. I'm going to try it for _real _now. Cover for me. _What_ the_—_do these people have _any _standards?"

"…No?" Darren shrugged, wondering if Seto was this animated with other people; he didn't think so. "I think you _are _too close to it. I mean, Jen's attracted to _me, _but that doesn't mean Katie is. But if I were famous like you, that wouldn't matter. These people don't think about who you _are. _They don't think about why it _doesn't _make sense. That's not how this 'Kaibacest' movement works. And before you shoot me, I didn't make that word up. Renie told me."

"I'm destroying the internet," Seto grumbled. "I'm done with it. That's it. Over."

"I won't stop you. Hell, I might encourage you."

Seto suddenly shot the detective a disgusted look. "Irena isn't a _part _of this, is she?"

"Hm? Oh. No. She disallows it on her sites. I asked her after I found that…ahem. Yeah, she isn't a fan. Said that even if she were, she wouldn't let it on her web-space. Said you'd kill her." The look on Seto's face said she hadn't been wrong. "I don't understand it any better than you do," Darren continued. "But people distance themselves when they make up this junk. They don't think about you, or Mokuba. Don't think about _them_. They'll drive you insane, and they'll think it's funny."

"Irena's pages are the official fan clubs, are they not?" Seto asked. "For both of us."

"Mm-hm. Even put up some sort of seal when she got your expressed permission."

"And she sells…merchandise."

"Some. T-shirts, DVDs of appearances, bracelets, necklaces. Knickknacks, mostly. She set up an agreement with your company; part of the proceeds from every sale goes to the Children's Home. It's all legal, all approved. You must have been told about it."

"Nnh," Seto muttered. "Fine. It sounds like I have no cause to take her to court over it." He sounded almost disappointed. "What about Katherine? She's Irena's best friend. She must have had a part in this."

"Katie moderates and regulates the forums," Darren said. "Some of them. And she's been increasingly vigilant about it ever since I met you. I…might have had something to do with that. I think I grounded her once for letting a particular thread go on too long."

Seto smirked.

Darren patted his friends shoulder. "Don't worry. Some of us still have souls. Look at the public outcry over the reaction to that whole shitstorm with von Schroeder. It started on those forums. You should have heard some of the things on there. People boycotting magazines that tried to paint you like a villain; protests, petitions. It brings a tear to your eye."

"Mokuba would be pleased to hear that," Seto said. "He's had a problem with the political spin on that event ever since he found that tabloid that called me a 'spineless murdering coward.' He called the editor. It looked to me like he actually wanted to bite the man's ear off. I'm pretty sure that tabloid went out of business, actually."

"Didn't that guy say you should be 'shipped back to China or whatever the hell fascist nation he's from'? That was gold. I have it framed on my wall. They picked a good picture of you for the cover. 'Kaiba, a Kareless Killer?' All K's, too. You know, like the Klan. You're a racist now."

"Fantastic," Seto muttered. "That makes hating people so much easier. I don't even have to _think _anymore." His face suddenly screwed up, and he stopped moving. "…Fascist?"

"Yeah," Darren laughed. "Isn't that great? I love it."

Seto bowed his head and looked ready to cry. "They're trying to _stupid _me to death."

* * *

**4.**

* * *

"What did Mokuba say to the editor of that magazine?"

Seto's smirk returned. "He was magnificent. 'Hello, my name is Mokuba Yagami Kaiba, and I'm the vice-president of the Kaiba Electronic Gaming Corporation. I want to talk to you about something. Who, exactly, do you think you are? What do you think 'editing' means? If you bothered to look it up, I'm pretty sure it doesn't involve sitting in a fancy swivel chair and drinking imported vodka while your writers make up fairy tales because they're so bitter about their own pathetic lives that this is the best they can come up with.'"

Darren burst out laughing. "He _said _that?"

Suddenly, all traces of bitterness were gone from Seto's face. His eyes were practically glowing as he recalled the event. "'What do _you _care if I'm _really _Mokuba Kaiba or not? You people don't check sources, you just make up names. What do you mean, how do I know? I looked it up. There's nobody named Daniel Horschack, and nobody _related _to Daniel Horschack, within three-hundred miles of this city. Oh, I'm sorry, _I'm_ being rude? If you wanted me to be polite, maybe you shouldn't have let this Farell Edwards make my brother out like a deranged maniac. Don't you dare tell me what happened that night, you fat sack of imbecile, I was _there._'"

"Fat sack of…! God, I love that boy. How have you not told me this story before?"

Seto was laughing, and it was one of the few times Darren could recall that his laughter _wasn't_ tainted by bitterness or sarcasm. He was legitimately pleased. "A masterful performance. I should have filmed it. I might have, if I'd known he was going to do it."

Darren was grinning from ear to ear. "I'm getting a sneaking suspicion that someone is protective of your image. Did you ever get a reply from this editor? Or was he too scared to speak to you? After all, Mokuba had to learn it from somewhere."

Seto shrugged. He looked up at the sky, still with a grin on his face that was only half his usual smirk. Darren felt accomplished. He had successfully steered the conversation in a different direction. He said, "How is Mokuba liking his new school?"

"He seems to enjoy it," Seto said. "He's been preoccupied. He hasn't said anything to me about it, but he's been having problems with public places. People. Crowds, especially. I think it's extending into his time at school. He's surrounded by strangers, except for Rebecca Hawkins."

"Were they friends before now? They've met, obviously."

Seto nodded. "The first time he saw her, she was at the original KaibaLand asking to borrow an arena for a duel with Yugi. Apparently it was over the card I destroyed. She thought Solomon Mutou had done it. The card was originally her grandfather's."

"The fourth Blue-Eyes." Seto raised an eyebrow, and Darren shrugged. "You pick stuff up. Katie's an encyclopedia. Can't have been a pleasant meeting, if she was looking for revenge."

"Nothing became of it then. He saw her on a more personal level at the KC Grand Prix tournament. I'd invited her. She's quite talented, come to think of it. Never did duel her personally." He frowned, thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should send her a copy of _Millennium_…another opinion, from a tournament duelist? I don't want _Yugi's_ opinion. He'll love it without playing it. Wheeler, too, I've no doubt. Rebecca might be more objective. She's in the target demographic, too."

Darren quirked an eyebrow. "I've been meaning to ask you something; why is it that you sometimes call Yugi by his first name, but Joey Wheeler only by his last? Is it just habit?"

Seto blinked, as if he'd never thought of it before, and was just realizing it. He said, "…I don't know. Probably. He was the first duelist to ever defeat me. Crawford was the second. Not _honestly_, but…anyway, I suppose I respect him. No small feat summoning Exodia with the streamlined, stripped rule system I used back then." He sounded disgusted with himself. "Never beat him, either. Haven't asked for a rematch in…almost a year." Seto's grin returned with a devilish curl. "I should have Mokuba duel him."

"Does that mean you _don't _respect Joey, then?" Darren asked. "You say you call Yugi by his first name out of respect…I _think _that's what you said, anyway. So…"

"I _didn't," _Seto admitted. "As to my thoughts on him _now…_I'll get back to you on that."

Darren chuckled. "I see. Ever think you don't like him very much because he reminds you of…_you? _Don't give me that look. You know precisely what I mean, and I know you do. He's blunt, honest, proud, protective—need I go on? Should I write this down? Come on, Seto."

"I could call that slander."

"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."

Seto raised an eyebrow. "I'm impressed. You quoted the line properly."

Darren grinned. "I's edja-cated."

"Clearly."

* * *

**5.**

* * *

"Roland said you went for a walk today."

"Mm," Seto said, sipping at his mug of black tea and leaning back in his chair. Mokuba slipped into the room, and Seto saw that he'd discarded his sneakers in the hallway. The younger Kaiba seemed to think that tracking even the faintest amount of dirt into his brother's bedroom was a grave insult.

From anyone else, he thought, it would have been.

But then, it wasn't as if he let anyone else _into _this room in the first place.

"Did I make it right?" Mokuba asked, gesturing to the tea.

It was a bit too sweet, and he wasn't exactly a fan of the milk, but he said, "It's fine, Mokuba. Thank you."

"You don't like it."

Seto chuckled, shaking his head. "I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did. I can tell."

"You know I'm a minimalist when it comes to what I drink," Seto said.

"I thought maybe you'd like something different."

"Perhaps it's an acquired taste. Don't look like that, Mokuba. You didn't cut off my left foot. It's fine. I just don't like sweet. You know that. I think maybe you're just looking to convert me into a sugar-infested zombie like the rest of you people. Nice touch, using tea. Next you'll sneak it into my coffee, and there you have it. Sugar is a watered-down derivative of cocaine, you know."

Mokuba sputtered with sudden laughter. "Where'd you come up with _that?"_

"Study. Very important doctors and scientists. Done by the Huntingfield Research Institute, in fact. You don't know who that is because you're a heathen."

"You made that up."

"Nonsense. Look it up in the dictionary. H-E-A…"

"Not _that!" _Mokuba crossed his arms. "You're just joking around to make me feel better."

Seto raised a curious eyebrow. "Is it not working?"

Mokuba tried to keep his face stern, but couldn't quite manage it. He half-smiled. "…Maybe."

Seto snatched the mug from his desk and drained it. A slight shudder went through him, and he grimaced. Mokuba laughed again. He said, "Fair is fair, kiddo. For that, tomorrow morning, you're drinking coffee. Ah-ah. I'll have no argument."

"I hate coffee."

"Blasphemer."

"Atheist."

Seto scoffed. "I'm sorry, was that supposed to be an insult?"

"No. You can't blaspheme an atheist."

"Is that a challenge?"

"If it is, I just won."

Seto scowled. "...You keep getting better at this. Stop it."

Mokuba grinned. Seto shook his head, stood up from his chair, and rolled his shoulders. He watched as his brother stepped over to the small bookshelf in one corner of the room. Mokuba began to scan the titles. "Miss Lorwell says we're reading 'To Kill a Mockingbird' after we finish the book report," he said.

"Hm," Seto offered. "I take it you haven't decided what to read _for _that report." He stepped over to stand behind the black-haired boy as Mokuba shook his head. He looked over his small collection, even though he knew every volume. His thin fingers traced over them. Mokuba stepped to the side and watched his brother for a moment.

Seto looked pensive. Thoughtful.

He said, almost dreamily, "I think. I am. I will. My hands, my spirit, my sky, my forest, this earth of mine…" His fingers stopped on a particularly thin spine and he removed it. He stared at the cover. Mokuba looked expectantly at him.

"What's that one, Niisama?"

Seto's lips curved. "_Anthem_," he said. "It's short. Some call it prose poetry—idiotic term. Don't ever use it. She may not accept this." He handed the slim volume to Mokuba. "Take this to her. See if it will suffice. If you like."

"What…what _is _it?"

It was written by Ayn Rand, an author whose name Mokuba was quite familiar with. He didn't recognize this particular title, however. He was slightly confused; it wasn't often that Seto looked like this. He looked…well, there was no other word for it: he looked sentimental.

"I bought it myself," Seto said, "at a local bookstore. When I was five."

Mokuba blinked. "…You were reading…by _five…? This_…?"

Seto laughed quietly. "Mother told me I probably wouldn't understand it, but…I suppose I liked the title. Or the dust jacket. I had saved my allowance, which she and Father had begun giving me just that year. That was the first thing I purchased. My first possession, if you want to be romantic about it."

Suddenly, Mokuba looked as if he were holding the first handwritten edition of the Bible. He was about to say something embarrassing when a thought came to him. He said, "_Did _you understand it?" and Seto laughed again. Mokuba wondered idly why his brother was in such a good mood tonight, but decided not to question good fortune.

"More or less," Seto said. "You should have no trouble with it. It's not quite as involved as her other fictional work." He gestured. "As I said, however, it may not be sufficient for what your instructor is asking you to do. Still…it's worth asking. If you want to."

Mokuba beamed, and held the small novel to his chest like a priceless treasure back to his own room. Seto watched him go, and felt peaceful for what felt like the first time in weeks.

Both Kaiba brothers slept well that night, with smiles on their faces.

* * *

**END.**

* * *

_**The book little Seto references in the first scene is "The Gunslinger" by Stephen King, and the character quoted is John "Jake" Chambers. If any of you recall the Top-10 lists I had on my profile a long way back, he was on my list of Favorite Male Characters. High on that list. Or, if he wasn't, he should have been.**_

_** The reference to Ayn Rand will be familiar to some of you, as well, I think. Yes, I'm still of the opinion that Seto reads her work. No, I don't intend to go into much detail about it. I'm off my high, so to speak, and I've tempered myself since "Back from the Dead." These stories are no longer my personal sounding board. I am the stories' sounding board. There is a difference...I think.**_

_** I'm not sure I need to make reference to the Shakespeare quote, but in the interest of full disclosure, it's from Hamlet. The line is often misquoted as "Methinks the lady doth protest too much." Seto, being a learned sort, knows this to be false. So, apparently, does Darren.**_

_** I'll see you all next time. Hope you had fun with this one.**_

_** Take care.**_


	25. Faces of the Helpless

_**Working on this story has taken on a whole different light after starting "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes." I suppose I would say that there's a certain depth to the world I'm cultivating here. But then, maybe that's just authorial hubris.**_

_** In any case, I do my best to juggle these two projects; while on the one hand, I try to keep them intertwined with each other and relevant to each other, I also try to make sure that those of you who only read one or the other are not left in the dark.**_

_** Nonetheless, I suggest reading both. Not just because I'm rather proud of what BEVE has become, but because it puts an extra layer onto the project. The cake has frosting now, I suppose you could say.**_

_** In any case, let's see what's going on at school today, shall we?**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

"Someone's in a better mood today."

Mokuba smiled at Rebecca. "Guess so."

The girl genius looked expectant. "Well, don't just leave it there. What happened? Birthday party? Early Christmas present? Did you win an award? What?" She crossed her arms again and looked half-ready to pout. Suddenly, she looked scared. "You didn't look up any fanfiction, did you? Oh, God, you didn't _like _it, did you?"

Mokuba laughed, the sound coming abruptly and loudly, and the other students turned to look at him. The young Kaiba shook his head, his smile a full grin now, and Rebecca looked relieved. "No, I didn't try to find any of _that," _he said, laughter still bubbling in his throat. "I mentioned it to Niisama. He knows already, and he says there's nothing to really do about it. He said trying to stop it would only encourage them."

Rebecca frowned. "Is your brother turning into a pacifist or something? The Kaiba I met would have started a crusade."

"No," Mokuba said, "he just stopped listening to other people talk about him. When he first took over Kaiba-Corp, he tried to argue. He'd go on talk shows and bite peoples' heads off. He says he realized that it never actually solved anything, so he decided he'd just let them say whatever they wanted, and not listen. He wants me to do that, too."

"Smart, I guess. I tried to yell at some of the people who wrote about _me _at first. Pretty soon, I just started going along with it. I leave comments like, 'Mister Wheeler is nice, but I don't like blonds very much.'" Mokuba looked sick to his stomach. "I guess it's something about the whole dueling thing. You know. We're all part of this special circle, and I guess we all…well…anyway, yeah. It's a lot more fun to watch people sputter all over themselves to apologize than it is to watch them get defensive. So I just play along. It embarrasses them."

"Oh," Mokuba said suddenly. "Dueling. That reminds me."

The black-haired boy grabbed his backpack and dug through it for a moment, coming out with a slim, white plastic box. He looked up. "Do you play videogames at all?" he asked.

"Sometimes," Rebecca said. "Usually when I'm traveling. I like handhelds."

"Oh, good. Perfect." Mokuba handed the box to her. "This is a prototype version of Kaiba-Corp's new project. Niisama wanted me to give you this copy to test it. He wants to know what you think, since you're a tournament duelist. He says he doesn't trust Yugi."

Rebecca grinned as she opened the box. "Ooh…a DS game. _Very_ nice. I just bought one of those. Well, Grandpa did. Well, no, it was with tournament winnings, so I guess I _did _buy it. Anyway, this is a videogame version of _Magic & Wizards, _then?" Mokuba nodded. "Hmmm…_Call of the Millennium._ I've been wondering when somebody would do this. Thank you. Does he want, like, a written review or something? Is this a loan?"

Mokuba shrugged. "I don't think so. He just told me to give it to you. I got the first copy. One of the pluses of being vice-president, I think. He says he decided to trust you with the second because…um…oh. He said out of all the duelists he's met, you're the only one who never really pissed him off. That's a pretty big compliment, actually."

Rebecca looked surprised. She looked at the game in her hand. "He said that?"

"He said you were one of the smartest, too. He said he liked your Shadow Ghoul strategy." Mokuba lowered his voice in a surprisingly accurate mimicry of his brother's, and said, "'Mutou can spout all he wants about the cards having hearts, but if he really believed that, he wouldn't send them to their deaths at all.'"

Rebecca laughed heartily. "That's awesome. You're good at that. Well, thank your brother for me. That was nice of him. Nicer than I would have thought possible, really. Did you put him up to this?" Her smile widened.

"I thought about asking him to, you know, let me give some to my friends," Mokuba admitted, "but _I _didn't think he'd do it, either." At this, Rebecca seemed pleased. "He _does _want you to tell him what to change, though, in exchange, you know. I don't know if he's looking for a written report or not, but watch for things you don't like, especially. He wants to know how to improve his game, so he isn't interested in compliments."

"_That _sounds like Kaiba. I'll do that."

"Thanks," Mokuba said.

The bell rang for first period, and they both stood up. Rebecca slipped the game into her pack and inclined her head. "See you later, Mokuba. Thanks again."

"Bye."

* * *

**2.**

* * *

Connor Brinkley wasn't at his desk in Miss Lorwell's class.

All of a sudden, Mokuba remembered that all _wasn't _perfect in his life right now. He dared a glance at his teacher; she was eyeing the empty desk with a look of concern. She crossed her arms as she waited for the period to begin. For a moment, she looked at Mokuba.

_She thinks I did something to him, _Mokuba thought, and wanted to be insulted. But somehow, he couldn't. He just felt embarrassed all over again. He'd _wanted_ to help, but had that even mattered? What if Connor was really hurt, now? What if those boys he'd seen in the hall were…? Well.

They hadn't seemed like the nice, forgiving type.

Mokuba's excitement over asking Miss Lorwell about _Anthem _was suddenly dashed. He took the small book out of his pack, but simply stared at it. His eyes flickered up to the young woman again, but she'd turned her gaze away to watch the rest of the class. She didn't _look _very upset, but then, Seto never did, either. It was an underlying chill to her demeanor, and even though Mokuba could hear his brother in his head, saying, _You have nothing to be ashamed of, _he couldn't help it.

Class went by normally. His respect for his literature teacher rose another notch when she didn't even give the faintest hint of anything but a positively buoyant mood as she began her lecture. She asked Mokuba a question from the textbook, and she smiled when he gave the correct answer, nodding and saying, "Very good," in a voice that wasn't even slightly insincere.

When the bell rang, he knew she was going to ask him to come to her desk. He didn't even wait for her to say it. He picked up his bag, took his brother's book, and walked over to her. He fidgeted as she looked at him, her elbows propped up on the surface. She said, "Have you spoken to Mister Brinkley about the apparent issue between you two?"

Mokuba bit his lip. "…Kinda."

"Kind of?" Miss Lorwell echoed, and the black-haired boy thought distantly that this must be what a mother sounds like when one of her children gets into trouble. It was no wonder that she'd become a teacher. She'd been made for it.

"I…I asked if I could…do anything to…help," Mokuba lied, thinking knowing Seto would be disappointed—even angry—but unable to stop himself. He cleared his throat. "I think there are some older kids, I don't know who they are, that are picking on him." He shrugged lamely.

Miss Lorwell leaned back in her chair. "Do you know these older kids?"

"No. I've never seen them before."

"Have you spoken to them?"

"I only saw them once. They left before I could say anything. But…Connor looked like he was scared of them. I don't know who they are. They're older than m—than I am, so I don't have any classes with them. I looked."

Miss Lorwell frowned. "I see. Well, I think you might want to speak to him again, next time you see him. If you cannot avoid it, ask him directly what's going on with these kids. I'll check into it, myself." She noticed the book in Mokuba's hand. "Is that the book you've chosen for your report?" she asked, and Mokuba found himself immensely relieved that _she _had changed the subject, instead of having to do it himself.

He lifted the small book and looked at it. "Niisama said I should ask you if this would work. He said you might not accept it." He handed it to Miss Lorwell. "He said some people call it…prose poetry, I think."

Miss Lorwell looked at the volume in her hand for a long time, considering. "You say…someone gave this to you?"

"Niisama did," Mokuba said. "My brother."

"Oh!" Miss Lorwell looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize…is that a nickname, then? What did you say? Niisama?"

Mokuba nodded. "It's Japanese."

"Ah. Okay, then. So your brother recommended this to you. An interesting choice. But if what I've heard of Seto Kaiba is true, then I guess it's not very surprising. I'd peg him as an objectivist, I think."

"A what?"

Miss Lorwell chuckled. "Ask him. Like I said, if the stories are true about your brother's personality, then I think it will sound familiar. Rand's other works are a bit more specific about it. Clearer. But this…this should give you an idea. I'll allow it, but you may find writing a report on this novel a bit difficult. Just a fair warning."

"You've read it?" Mokuba asked.

"I did, in college. A friend gave it to me on the fourth of July. Thought it was funny. It _was, _in a way, I guess." She handed the book back. "Anyway, go ahead. If you have the patience for it, you might find yourself in for a surprise. There's a lot of controversy surrounding this author's work, but…to those that I think she intended her audience to be, it's particularly powerful."

Mokuba grinned. "She's one of Niisama's favorite writers."

"Small surprise, that."

"People always say that. What do you mean?"

"It's hard to explain," Miss Lorwell said, "but I think you'll understand when you read it. Let's just say that if Miss Rand ever crossed paths with your brother, they probably would have…gotten along rather well."

Mokuba frowned thoughtfully. "Hmmm…"

"You should go out and eat lunch before you run out of time," Miss Lorwell said. "Good luck, with the book and Mister Brinkley. I'd like to see this issue resolved as quickly as possible."

Mokuba nodded. "Me, too. Thanks, Miss Lorwell."

"You're quite welcome. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you."

* * *

**3.**

* * *

"Seto-sama!"

Seto rolled his eyes as he approached, but for once, he didn't look irritated. "I am quite sure I've mentioned before that such formality is unnecessary. You needn't—"

She wasn't listening. She was grinning like a girl of twelve, shaking his hand and leading him forward. It never failed to surprise him to think back on how he remembered this woman, her kind but sorrowful face, her convicted but battered will. To look at her now, bright and happy and strong; and to hear her say that it was all because of him…

It wasn't often that Seto Kaiba felt gratitude when confronted with a "fan," but a part of him couldn't help but remember that, of the few adults in his youth, this was one he had honestly liked. Kristine Hathaway had been small, naïve, even mousy when he'd first met her; she was still small, but that was all he could say.

"I'm so pleased to see you come to visit!" said Kristine, still grinning. "Things have been going _wonderfully _since you took over! We still get calls, and even a few emails and letters from Kelvin, but nothing I think we need to be concerned over. He always _was _a sore loser, and I think being fired by _you, _of all people…well…" she laughed.

Seto smirked. He looked around at the Domino Children's Home, the place where he had spent such a small but pivotal period of his life. Some of the children he saw had the sullen look he remembered on so many of his peers from that time, but vastly more of them looked happy. Running, playing, laughing. Yes, he could see that the establishment was much more capably handled now that he'd…purged it of certain individuals.

He thought of Gregory Kelvin and grimaced.

"We received a donation recently," Kristine said, smiling. "From someone named Irena Eubank? I believe Dan said it was over two thousand dollars! Something to do with a fan club?"

Seto raised an eyebrow. "Irena Eubank and Katherine McKinley run the official 'Kaiba fan clubs,' and they've said that they will donate partial proceeds from all sales of merchandise, and donations, to this establishment. I see they have held to that promise."

"How sweet! You and Mo-chan have fan clubs?"

"Don't remind me," Seto muttered, but couldn't help but look pleased.

"McKinley," Katherine murmured. "That sounds familiar. Isn't he the detective who came out here to give a presentation a few months ago?"

"Katherine is his daughter," Seto said.

"The kids loved him. He's very funny."

"Mm."

He wasn't paying attention anymore.

A small boy was playing with a model helicopter. Another boy and girl, who looked like twins, were sitting with him. As Seto watched, an older boy sauntered over and snatched the toy away. A flash of memory passed over Seto's vision, and his smirk turned dark.

"Good to see the hierarchy remains intact…" he hissed under his breath. Kristine saw where his eyes were locked and flinched. The younger boy wasn't crying, but was clearly upset. He jumped to his feet. The twins, looking angry as opposed to sad, glared at the older boy's back as he laughed. Seto shifted his weight, and the boy—nine or ten, by the look of him—nearly bumped straight into him.

Seto did not move.

"Speaking of donations, and funding in general," Seto murmured, not looking at the boy but clearly aware of his presence. "One reason I came to you today was to ask your opinion on whether the children might benefit, and _deserve, _new gym equipment." Kristine couldn't quite keep the smirk from her face as the boy's eyes, and mouth, opened wide.

"Gym equipment, Seto-sama?" she asked. The boy flinched violently at the sound of the name.

"Well," Seto said, still keeping his eyes straight ahead; the younger boy and the twins were staring at him, "I had put thought to the idea of, say, a basketball court. Perhaps a baseball diamond? Balls, bicycles, rollerblades, perhaps even weights for the older ones."

"Deserve?" Kristine asked, now looking positively snakelike as the boy was all but drooling.

"I would hate to think that I am coddling these children by offering to buy this equipment," Seto said offhandedly. "If they have not been _behaving _themselves…if they have not been _learning _proper etiquette from you and the rest of the staff…if they are _bullying _and _stealing _from each other, or…"

Seto finally let his gaze fall downward to the boy standing just in front of him, holding the helicopter in both hands and looking as worshipful as if Seto were a tall, lanky Santa Claus. Seto said nothing, but his eyes flared, and the boy suddenly snapped his eyes downward. Looking at the toy like he didn't even know it had been there, he whirled and bolted over to the toy's owner and dropped it into his lap.

"Sorry! Sorry, sorry! I won't do it again, I swear!"

Seto rolled his eyes. "…It's a start."

Kristine chuckled. "He's having trouble adjusting," she said. "He needs boundaries. He needs guidance. You understand. There's still hope for _him, _though. He does honestly seem to want to play with the others, sometimes." She smiled. "Not like David. You remember David. He's…"

"Incarcerated," Seto muttered.

"Yes."

The young CEO sighed exasperatedly. "So Irena sent you a donation."

"Oh, yes. She dropped it off personally." Kristine Hathaway was one of the few people used to Seto's tendency to change the subject, to deflect, when he was uncomfortable with a given conversation. She didn't even quirk an eyebrow. "She's very excitable. She stayed with us for a while. She and Jennie started a game of dodgeball in the playground that lasted at least two hours. They even got Dan to participate."

Seto's expression lost some of its bitterness. "That sounds like her. The few times she has met with Mokuba, she wants to join in on whatever activity he happens to be engaged in. It doesn't matter to her if she knows the rules or not."

"No wonder she and Jennie got along."

"Indeed. Lorwell is performing well."

It wasn't a question, but almost. Kristine nodded. "Oh, Jennie was born for this place. The children love her. Even the more sullen ones, like Yonick there, can't help but smile around her. I think maybe even _you _would have liked her."

Seto tried to keep himself from flinching.

"And do you think this donation will be sufficient? Or shall we work something out?" Seto raised an eyebrow. "One of the most sorely lacking resources this place had when Kelvin was…" he cleared his throat, "…running it, were recreation and exercise. Of course, there is the park. But insofar as exercise is concerned…"

Kristine nodded. "That sounds like a fine idea, Seto-sama," she said, "and I assure you that aside from a…couple upstarts, they've been in exceedingly high spirits since the renovation took place. Someone is finally taking an interest in their welfare _while _they live here."

Seto's lips curved slightly, and he nodded. "Indeed. Well, look into it. I'll have Roland send you an idea of just what I was planning, and we'll go from there."

They passed the three children, still staring.

"Jamie," Seto said, nodding to the youngest. "Margaret, Matthew," he said to the twins.

Three identical grins split their faces.

"Thank you!" Jamie cried.

Margaret bowed. _"Arigatou-gozaimasu."_

"Very good!" Kristine said. She smiled. "You've been practicing pronunciation. Very nice."

_"Do itashimashite," _Seto replied, and Margaret stared.

"He said, 'you're welcome,'" Kristine said.

"Oh!" She bowed again.

Seto inclined his head. He chuckled as Matthew gave a slight, dazed little wave.

"How is Mo-chan doing?" Kristine asked as they began to walk along the path through the courtyard, where the other children were enjoying the unseasonably cool weather. "I haven't seen him for some time. I did see the speech he gave a few months ago. Turning into quite the little showman, isn't he?"

Seto's smirk returned, but he didn't look quite as relaxed as he might have. He said, "Mokuba's doing well enough. He is still…recovering."

Kristine frowned. "Oh. Oh, God. I'm sorry. I…I forgot about…"

Seto shook his head. "No, don't apologize. It's…" He was about to say "it's nothing," but stopped himself. "It will…pass." He drew in a breath. "I think that _I _am likely to dwell on this event longer than he will." He couldn't quite pinpoint why he was explaining himself, but all the same, he didn't find it as abhorrent as he might have thought.

"Well," Kristine said in an attempt to placate, "Mo-chan did tell me once that as long as you were with him, everything and everywhere was fun. He's a little angel. You've done well with him, Seto-sama. You know that, don't you?"

Seto shrugged again.

"You know, you really should try to accept a compliment once in a while."

No response.

Seto adjusted his jacket and continued walking in silence.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

The look on Rebecca Hawkins's face as she stepped into the Turtle Game Shop was nothing short of predatory. As Mokuba followed her inside what was fast becoming his second home (not that he'd ever say such a thing out loud), he saw a mischievous glint in her eyes, magnified by the lenses of her glasses, that he remembered seeing once before.

When she'd told him about…_that._

"Rebecca?" the black-haired boy began, curious and a little nervous, but Rebecca held up one index finger, indicating that he should wait. Mokuba followed the line of her gaze and saw that she was watching the doorway on the far corner of the shop, to the right of the counter.

"Be there in a minute!" came Yugi's voice from beyond that door.

Rebecca's lips curved in a grin that made her companion shiver.

She had stopped Mokuba after school that day (running to catch up to him as he'd begun to step into Seto's car), and asked him where he bought his cards for _Magic & Wizards. _"I want to build a new deck for this game you lent me," she'd said, "and I saw this code entrance option here, to add cards based on their serial numbers. So…"

Mokuba had looked to his brother, who was watching Rebecca with an unreadable mixture of expressions on his face. "Niisama, can you take us to Yugi's? For a while? I don't have much homework. I'll finish as soon as I get home."

Watching Seto's eyes was like watching a machine process a constant influx of data. The common phrase had it that the eyes were the window to the soul; Mokuba thought of his brother's eyes as the computer monitor onto which he so often set them. It was a much more accurate description.

Rebecca noticed that she was being watched, and blinked. She inclined her head. "A pleasure, Mister Kaiba," she said quickly. "Ah…thank you for the game. I appreciate it. Sir."

At this last, Seto actually chuckled. "Let's go, then," he said, and gestured. "I'm holding you to that offer, Mokuba. Understood?"

"Yes, Niisama."

"I'll be picking you up at five. Miss Hawkins, you and your grandfather still live in Lakeshore Court?" Rebecca nodded, clearly surprised. Seto raised an eyebrow and smirked. "It was considered necessary to look up your address to extend the invitation to KC Grand Prix."

The girl genius blinked, then grinned, embarrassed. "Oh. Right. Of course. Yes, we do, sir."

Seto nodded. "Fine. I'll have Copeland drive you home, then, if you cannot procure a ride from Mutou or your grandfather."

And so, they had driven to the shop. Seto nodded when Mokuba waved goodbye, and Rebecca watched him speed off, saying, "Nice car," before turning to the entrance and stepping inside. No one had greeted them; Mokuba knew why, now. Yugi was clearly busy with something…some things.

Indeed, Yugi came into the front room carrying a tall stack of manga, graphic novels and art books that obscured his vision; he often did this, but Mokuba thought—considering the sadistic glee rising in Rebecca's eyes as she saw him—that he might stop rather soon.

Tristan was behind him, and he saw Rebecca before Yugi did. He was about to greet them when Rebecca held a finger to her lips. The brunette looked confused, but shrugged and stayed silent. The blonde prodigy drew in a deep breath, and…

_"Daaaarliiiiiiing!"_

* * *

**5.**

* * *

Did she think of herself as Seto Kaiba's mother?

Of course not. She'd heard a few stories about the woman, and she knew without thinking that anyone who even dared _think _of comparing themselves to Yagami Yuki would immediately—and irrevocably—find themselves on the _wrong _side of the Kaiba family. She most certainly did not want to do that.

Still, even though she hadn't been in a position to adopt the Yagami boys when they'd lived under her care, Kristine Hathaway had begun to think of herself, subconsciously at the least, as a surrogate mother. She was sure that Daniel Elliot had tried in his own way to take up the role of their father, too.

So while it was certainly true that she _wasn't _their mother, she still sometimes _felt _like she was, and so Kristine was nothing if not mechanical when Pegasus Crawford paid a visit to the Domino Children's Home, not two hours after Seto had left.

The silver-headed prima donna preferred a much flashier display of wealth than his former business rival; he dressed in bright, primary colors, with ruffed shirts and glittering cufflinks; he was an eccentric man, he always had been, and he likely always would be. Kristine watched him approach, flanked by two guards, and found herself irritated that he looked so pleasant. He was a handsome man, of that there was no denying, and he certainly knew how to accentuate his looks. He carried himself well.

She hated it.

Unable to forget that this man had once kidnapped a seven-year-old boy and tried to pass it off as a misunderstanding, Kristine thought his hand felt slimy when she shook it. She didn't bother to hide her disdain as she nodded her head the slightest bit. "Mister Crawford," she said softly.

"Miss Hathaway," Pegasus replied graciously, bowing his head, letting his curtain of shining hair fall over his features. When he stood straight again, half of that curtain still covered his face. His one visible eye was a bright, vibrant, rich brown that sparkled with mirth. "It is an honor to meet you," he said.

"I'm sure," Kristine said. One of the guards bristled at what was clearly perceived to be an insult, but Pegasus didn't seem to notice. She said, "To what might I attribute this…honor, Mister Crawford? You'll forgive me if I don't understand why you would visit _this _place, of _all_ places, after spending so much time out of the limelight."

Pegasus smiled, and it was a charming smile. A boyish smile.

"Ah, well," he said offhandedly, "I must admit to you, Miss Hathaway, that I did not necessarily think of _where _I wished to go today. It was a bit of a whim, you see. But I've heard stories that Kaiba-boy—" Kristine flinched violently, "—excuse me, has recently renovated this establishment, and I must further admit that I was curious to see what he has done to improve the lives of our city's orphans. Far too often, we forget about them. It is a sad thing."

"But you would not forget the orphans, of course," Kristine said, clenching her teeth, thinking, _because you prefer to torment them. _"How charming that a man of such means as yourself would express an interest in the less fortunate."

Pegasus bowed his head again, but Kristine had a feeling that he knew she hadn't been complimenting him. She had always thought that Pegasus Crawford had risen to his position because he was exceptionally gifted at reading people. If his bodyguards had caught on to the fact that she was hardly pleased to see him—as was evident by the offended looks on their faces and the stiffness of their bodies—then Pegasus himself surely knew.

And Pegasus surely knew _why_.

"Seto-sama has given these children new hope," Kristine said sharply. "The old building was ripped down after the new one was built, and the ground used for it was converted into a theme park, to which the children will always have free admission. He's given them what most people never think to: a life worth living. Do you know how often orphans like the residents here are simply tossed aside because they're considered 'problem children?' Because they aren't _worth _the trouble of raising?"

Pegasus looked honestly sad. "Children are defined by their parents. We, as children, were defined by ours. You might say that we are accessories, if you wanted to be cynical about it. Like a pair of earrings without an owner, the children here are simply allowed to rust. Or…they _were. _Seto-sama has made a fine choice, placing you in charge, I think."

"Thank you," Kristine said, in a tone that said she wasn't the least bit thankful. She thought this must be what Seto Kaiba felt when people complimented _him; _and for the first time, she thought she really understood why he despised it.

Pegasus watched Jamie and the twins—Margaret and Matthew—running and laughing. He smiled. "Yes, yes. A fine choice. Ah…Miss Hathaway? Would it be entirely out the question if I…gave an announcement to the children?" He smiled that disarming smile again. "In an attempt to…reestablish my reputation, I thought perhaps I might hold a little contest, you see. And as _Magic & Wizards _has always been a children's pursuit, for the most part, I thought I would announce this contest first…right here. No cameras, no television coverage, just…here."

Pegasus held out his thin, almost girlish hands and waited.

Kristine couldn't quite stop the sneer from her face, but she said, "Of course. I'm sure the children would like to hear about this. Interest in _Magic & Wizards _has gained new heights here, ever since Seto-sama's generosity made itself known. If you will allow me to alert the staff, we will bring them to the auditorium. Please, wait here. I will send someone to escort you?"

Pegasus bowed. "Thank you very much, Miss Hathaway."

She inclined her head. "You're quite welcome, Mister Crawford."

* * *

**6.**

* * *

"Pegasus-sama, you shouldn't allow people to talk to you in such a blatantly rude fa—"

"That's quite enough, Patrick," Pegasus Crawford interrupted, holding up a hand. "She runs an _orphanage. _She knows them both personally. She has every reason to despise me, and if you want to know the truth of the matter, I'm quite surprised she did not order me out."

"Them, Pegasus-sama? Who?"

"Don't be thick," Pegasus admonished lightly. "You know precisely _who. _Kaiba-boy and his brother _are _orphans, you know, and they _did _live here for a time. Miss Hathaway was not at the helm, of course, but…she knew them well."

The man called Patrick scoffed. "Kaiba. Do _you_ walk on eggshells around him, too,now? Come now, Pegasus-sama, you're _far _above _his _level."

"That's very nice of you," Pegasus said, "and naively cute. But I'm afraid you are quite mistaken. Kaiba Gozaburo _earned _his reputation, and it was not the faintest bit exaggerated, I assure you. I met with him once. Once was…enough."

"Seto Kaiba isn't his father, Pegasus-sama."

"No, he isn't," Pegasus agreed. "And I once made the mistake of thinking that was a mark in _my _favor. You both should know that anyone, especially a young man like Kaiba-boy, is much, _much _more dangerous when he has something, or _someone_, to protect."

"You fought him once!" Patrick cried indignantly. "You fought him and won! You shouldn't lick his boots like the rest of these _sheep! _You're better than _that!"_

Pegasus sighed.

He lifted a hand, and drew back the hair covering the left side of his face. His guards both flinched. Where there had once been a shining eye made of solid gold, there was now only an empty socket.

"Perhaps at one time. Not anymore."

* * *

**END.**


	26. I Must Keep in Good Health

_**Those of you who have read "Cemetery Dance" should recognize the character I'm going to be introducing in this chapter. Now, this section of the story is still in the past. That is to say, it's an extension of the flashback that took place in the "Shot in the Dark" storyline. Thus, it would be perfectly logical for you to wonder where this person was during the early chapters of the story.**_

_**I don't have an answer for that, except to say that I hadn't invented her yet. She was originally created for Dance, and this story had been around for quite a while when I started that project.**_

_**So, until/unless I go back and revise the entire "Good Intentions" series, I humbly request that you allow me to keep the earlier chapters the way they are. We'll just ignore the inconsistency, shall we?**_

_**With this chapter, my manuscript (that is, the core story, minus notes) has now reached 100,000 words, and is my second-longest story to date. I had no idea that this project would become so huge, or that it would become so important to me. But that's how these things usually go.**_

_**I hope that you enjoy this installment.**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

It was Seto's general policy to look at what was needed, and get it; he thought about how to integrate the solution to a problem once he had the resources. Once he realized that Mokuba was having serious trouble acclimating to his new environment at East Rivers Middle—a private school, but still entirely too public for the boy's tastes at this point—Seto knew that he had to do something; for a while, he simply wasn't sure what.

Realizing that he, personally, could no longer do what was required to keep his brother grounded and able to function at his best was a difficult pill to swallow, but Seto had grown since his teenage years; he was now able to accept unfortunate truths. Instead of dwelling on what he considered a grievous failure—which he could have done, quite easily—Seto decided to accept the idea as a basis and move forward with it.

_Mokuba needs help, _he told himself, _and if I can't provide it myself, then I need to find someone who can. That's my job._

Roland seemed stuck on the idea that therapy was the best option.

Plenty of others, those few whose opinion he had sought, took a more psychiatric approach to the question, but the collective suggestion was much like Roland's: he needed professional help.

But Seto knew that wasn't an option. He knew that Mokuba was probably expecting that, and would resist it. It sometimes pained Seto to think that Mokuba thought so much of his big brother that he would lie—straight-faced to a professional whose only job was to help him heal—just to keep Seto out of potentially hot water; and he would do it without thinking. He would do it without any sense of guilt or doubt.

That was unacceptable.

Eventually, Seto arrived at the place he least expected, but once he was there…it made sense.

To be true, Kristine was surprised to see Seto again so soon. He didn't make a habit of visiting the orphanage he'd renovated; even though it had a new face and a fresh coat of paint, even though it was an entirely rebuilt complex, there were too many bitter memories here. Nonetheless, Seto arrived at the Domino Children's Home on his lunch break, and found himself asking a question of Kristine Hathaway that felt so thoroughly awkward that it was…thick. She gave him an odd look, somehow knowing something important was going on, and waited patiently for him to speak.

"…I have a question to ask you," Seto said, "and I want you to think _very _hard before you answer. When you have…problem children. Ones who refuse to adhere to authority, who bristle at the slightest perceived threat…who are traumatized."

Kristine didn't say, _Like you, _but the words were stamped onto her eyes.

"And when you are at your wit's end with them, and they refuse to listen…to whom do you turn? Who is the last resort? In short…out of every social worker you have in your employ…which would you trust with your own child?"

Kristine's expression had changed partway through, and Seto knew that she understood what he was asking. She said, "This is about your brother." A nod that was almost a spasm was his answer. Then, Kristine's entire face brightened, and she grinned. "I don't have to think. I know exactly who you're looking for. Come with me."

She led him into the building, down the halls, around a corner and into a private study chamber. While Seto stood off to the side, bending all his willpower on _not _fidgeting, Kristine tucked her head into the room. "Pardon," she said softly, "but as soon as you hit a breaking point, could I speak with you?"

A while later, far too long for Seto's tastes—though he held his tongue and berated himself for being so damned jumpy lately—the door opened and a young woman stepped out.

For a moment, Seto thought stupidly that he was looking at…

But no.

No, that was idiotic.

She was slim, of average height, dressed in pale blue jeans and a button-down shirt; her straight, waist-length hair was a brown so dark that it was almost black; her green eyes were sharp and inquisitive. "Yes?" she asked, turning to regard Kristine, and her voice was light, and casual, yet with a certain…edge.

"Yoshi," Kristine said, and thanks to his profession and his brother's influence, some part of Seto's mind cried out that she didn't look anything like a green dinosaur, "I'd like to introduce you to someone. This is Mister Kaiba."

The woman called Yoshi turned to look at Seto, and her eyes went wide as dinner-plates. "Oh!" And, absurdly, she bowed. "I'm so sorry, sir! I didn't recognize you. Good afternoon. How may I help you?"

She knew his reputation, but not his face.

Seto found he liked that.

"You may or may not have been made aware of a recent conflict," he did not hesitate on using this word, but couldn't keep the twitch of irritation from his face, "between myself, my brother, and one Siegfried von Schroeder."

Yoshi licked her bottom lip nervously, but kept her eyes trained on Seto's. "I believe so, yes. It was…five, six months ago, wasn't it?"

"Give or take," Seto said dismissively. "Since then, my brother has been studying from home. However, recently we've agreed that it would be better for him to go back to school."

"We?" Yoshi repeated.

"My brother and I. He's been having difficulty adapting to his return to the public eye, however, and his grades have suffered because of it." He could already sense the skepticism from Yoshi and added, "By his estimation, not mine. He says that the work is frustrating, and he doesn't know how to do it half the time, and that…ah…'the after-school tutors they're parading around are too stupid to light a fire with a match powered by thought.'"

Yoshi chuckled. "Charming."

"If the only issue were finding a private tutor for him," Seto said, "I wouldn't be bothering you. I believe that the problem…runs deeper than that. I have asked Kristine who she would recommend for a case similar to this one, and she has brought me here to you. So, I've a proposition for you: a position on my in-house staff. I would ask that you simply do what you believe to be necessary to…help him. Understand that he does not trust 'professionals,' and will fight tooth and nail were I to subject him to therapy." Thankfully, this was true; though it felt like a lie. "I do not believe this to be conducive to recovery. I would like to opt for a subtler approach."

Yoshi seemed intrigued. Her stance turned easy, and she frowned curiously at him. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were fishing for a babysitter, sir. Are there not members of your in-house staff already who would be…better suited to helping him?"

The nervousness had left her. She was cool and confident.

"None with an understanding in childhood development or psychology. They treat him the same way they treat me. Normally, this is not an issue. Recently, it seems to offend him."

"So that we're clear, you're asking me to commit to this full-time. To quit my job here."

"Not at all," Seto said, reading the apprehension on her face and finding it a good thing. "He comes home at two-thirty in the afternoon. I would need you to be on hand at that time."

"How long would you need me to…help him each day?"

"Until _I _come home, likely as not. Which tends to be five-thirty or six in the evening, depending on the season."

Yoshi mulled this over. "So, you're looking for someone trained enough to know the signs, and work with him, without the threat of an office and a long couch. You want someone to look after him who knows what to look for. A babysitter with credentials, effectively."

"I would not say no to someone versed enough in helping him with his homework, if the need were to arise. Understand that he is fully capable of looking after himself in a general sense, and does not require constant supervision. I would only ask that you do what you deem to be necessary to keep him on the right path to recovery."

Yoshi was grinning. Seto smirked.

"Now, Seto-sama," Kristine cut in, and both looked at her, "I do hope you're not asking her to work for _free."_

Seto blinked, then laughed. "Absolutely not. I'd like to know whether you would be interested in assisting me, before we begin the discussion of pay."

Yoshi seemed to be sizing him up. She glanced at Kristine.

"I have a series of questions for you, sir, and I hope that you will not take offense to them."

"Ask."

"Are _you _trained in childhood development and psychology?"

"I am."

"How often do you take vacations?"

"I don't, unless the need is particularly pressing."

"Would it be possible for you to work from home?"

"Yes."

"So, what keeps you from staying at hand for your brother, and working while he is at school?"

Kristine frowned.

Seto's smirk widened. "The knowledge that doing so would do more harm than good. The only reason he has made the effort to return to school is because I have returned to work. He knows full well that my place is with Kaiba-Corp, and that I prefer working with my employees directly at hand. Were I to make this alteration to my schedule permanently, there is no reason I could give him that would prevent him from blaming himself. He would consider himself a burden upon me, which I cannot condone."

Yoshi considered this for a long, long moment.

Then she smiled. "I'll help you."

"Am I correct in assuming that Yoshi is a nickname?" Seto asked, as he shook the woman's hand.

"It is. My name is Akiko. Akiko Yoshimi. A pleasure to meet you, sir."

"Seto Kaiba. Likewise."

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"Are you going to tell him about Mister Crawford?"

Daniel Elliot was not what you would call a timid person; nonetheless, as he watched the man responsible for the sudden upswing in his career striding across the parking lot, he looked ready to bolt. He clearly did not want to see what would happen, if indeed it _was _Kristine's intention to tell Seto about the recent reappearance of his former enemy.

"Not unless it becomes absolutely necessary," Kristine replied. "He has enough on his mind right now. I don't intend to muck up the works if it won't directly influence something important. Right now, it seems harmless. Crawford didn't seem interested in his usual games. He seemed…legitimately happy to be here."

Daniel crossed his arms. "The man is a master manipulator. You've seen the news, same as I have. The interviews, the articles. I feel like if we don't tell Seto now, he'll find out. And he'll wonder why we didn't."

"And I will answer him." Kristine turned away as Seto's Veyron pulled out onto the street, and walked back toward the courtyard. Daniel fell into step beside her. "If I tell him Pegasus Crawford has resurfaced, he'll get antsy. He'll get worse than usual. Mokuba will notice, and he'll ask what's wrong. Seto will tell him, and all those bad memories will surface for both of them. They don't need that."

"So, what should we do in the meantime?"

Kristine thought for a moment. Then she said, "Call Mister Ackerman. He's the head of Seto's security team. He'll know how to handle things."

Daniel rubbed his chin. "Okay. That seems reasonable."

They both watched as Yoshi stepped up to them. She said, "I'd like to speak with you, if I could. About my new…arrangement."

"Yes?" Kristine gestured for her to walk with them.

"I know you speak highly of him, of both the Kaibas," Yoshi began, eyes flitting from Kristine to Daniel and back to Kristine; she seemed nervous again. "And I've lived in Domino long enough to know…well, there's only one answer when Seto Kaiba offers you a job. But…what, exactly, am I getting into?"

Kristine chuckled, but there was little humor in it. "That's a…broad question."

"I'll say it is," Daniel agreed. "You have to be careful with that man. Even when he was little, it was way too easy to get lost trying to figure out what went on in that machine that serves him for a brain. When he first arrived here, back in '99, he was the oldest twelve-year-old I'd ever met."

"You hear a lot of horror stories," Kristine added, "but the important thing to remember is that a lot of them are…exaggerated. He's become an icon, and icons attract urban legends."

"And that…incident he talked about. Story is, he killed the man involved. Is _that_ an urban legend?"

"No."

"What about the one about gambling on top of a glass building rigged with plastic explosives set to explode if he lost?"

"No. That happened."

"Threatening suicide to force an opponent to forfeit a game, in a tournament he wasn't invited to?"

"No."

Yoshi's face was dark. "Uh-huh."

"You're missing a certain aspect of each of those stories," Daniel said, "and the reason for that is…well, Seto's better at handling the press than people might think. The tournament he wasn't invited to attend was held by Pegasus Crawford. Who, at the time, was holding Mokuba hostage, and refused to let him go unless Seto beat him at _Magic & Wizards. _In order to do that, he had to win the privilege."

Yoshi's expression darkened. "So…he threatened suicide to…ensure he would be able to face this man? Because otherwise…"

"I shudder to think what that man might have done to Mokuba if Seto-sama hadn't done what he did," Kristine said.

"And as for the plastic explosives incident…again, Seto's hand was forced."

"By someone threatening Mokuba-kun."

"You guessed it. And as to the man he killed…third time's the charm. This time, Seto'd had enough, I think. He was done playing softball."

Yoshi frowned and looked off to the side, clearly troubled. "Small wonder the poor boy's in bad shape. How old is he?"

"Ten, going on eleven," Kristine said. "When he was taken in by Crawford, he was seven."

"Seto doesn't just rampantly murder, or risk his life frivolously," Daniel added. They seemed to be tag-teaming their colleague. "The word 'frivolous' has never been in that man's vocabulary. Everything he does has a very…calculated reason. Even if it seems insane to the rest of us."

Yoshi raised an eyebrow. "This sounds like a dangerous assignment."

"It probably will be," Daniel said, "but then…that's probably one reason he's so tight with security. And why he pays so well." He grinned, conspiratorially. "He's asked you to help him look after his brother. I don't think you understand just what that means yet, but you will."

"…What are you getting at?"

Kristine's grin matched Daniel's. "The richest man in the hemisphere is asking you to help him with something he hasn't ever trusted _anyone _else but himself to do. Not his father, not me, not Daniel, not even his best friend. We're not talking about some part-time summer job that will pay for a new stereo. You're about to launch your career."

* * *

**3.**

* * *

Both Seto Kaiba and Roland Ackerman were standing by for the first meeting between Akiko and her new charge. She tried not to act as nervous as she felt, once again wondering how she'd gotten into this situation so quickly, and what is it she really intended to do. Sure, she was good with kids; at least, that's what she _thought. _But now she was faced with helping a kid with what bordered dangerously on PTSD.

She drew in a deep breath and knocked on the younger Kaiba's door.

A few seconds later, a soft voice called out, _"Yes?"_

"Hi," she said, putting on her best conversational tone. "I'm Kiko. Seto-sama just hired me onto the house staff. He said that I should introduce myself."

She heard a chair squeak, miscellaneous rustling, and then the door opened. Having lived in Domino City for a period longer than a week, Akiko had of course _seen _the young vice-president of the Kaiba Corporation. He'd become a media sensation not unlike his brother. On television, he always had a wide grin on his face; he was one of the most photogenic children she had ever seen, and obviously Seto had taught him how to make use of each and every second of public exposure he'd ever had. He never failed to make an impression.

Seeing him here, in his own home, on the threshold of his private sanctuary, Akiko finally understood why she had been called in. Oh, sure, he was smiling. He looked gracious enough. As he looked up at her with a neutrally pleasant expression, she thought that it should have been normal. There was nothing out of place here.

But just the same, she knew she didn't believe that. She saw the worry, the apprehension, the anger hidden behind that slight little smile.

"Hi," he offered.

She glanced cursorily into the room, which was as organized as any young boy's ought to be…which was to say, it wasn't. A multitude of windows were open on his computer screen, and there was a wireless headset sitting next to his keyboard.

"Oh," Akiko said, "I'm sorry. Were you working on something? I didn't mean to interrupt you."

Mokuba glanced over his shoulder. "No, it's…okay. So, you just started?"

Akiko nodded. "That's right. My first day."

"What will you be doing?"

She didn't look; but all the same, she knew that Seto and Roland were both watching her. They were waiting to see how she would handle this question. Would she be honest? Would she be diplomatic? Would she mix the two? Would she outright lie?

"…You know how political offices will hire interns during the summer? And they'll do pretty much anything staff tells them to do, because it's 'part of the learning experience?' Kind of like that. I suppose you could say I'm a bit of a jack of all trades. Jane of all trades? Anyway. I've been looking for a way to, ah…expand my skill sets, and Seto-sama was kind enough to give me that opportunity. He said there's no shortage of work that needs doing here."

Mokuba didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary with this answer, which Akiko figured was a good thing. He raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a…you know, specialty? Niisama likes people to focus on what they're good at. Doing. Good at doing. You know what I mean."

"Well, I was an education major, so…you know, if you ever need help with homework. I should be able to remember enough to wrangle together an answer." She winked.

Mokuba's smile turned a bit more honest.

"So, um…can I ask? What are you working on?" She gestured.

"Um…well, you can come in if you want. Sorry, it's…kind of…messy."

Akiko grinned. "Thank you. I'd be delighted."

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Seto and Roland glanced at each other, words flitting soundlessly between them as Akiko Yoshimi entered Mokuba's sanctuary. Roland fell into step beside his employer as they began to walk slowly, almost aimlessly, in the general direction of Seto's office. Roland said, "I had my doubts at first. Seemed kind of…jumpy. But she's quick. This scheme of yours just might work."

"Shocking as it might seem, I _do _tend to know what I'm doing," Seto said, a ghost of his usual smirk on his lips. "We'll have to…expand her position, to match up with her new cover story."

"I'll come up with something."

Seto stopped moving, glanced idly up at the ceiling, and seemed to wait. Roland stopped as well, frowning curiously. Back behind them, they heard Akiko's voice: "Wait a second. _You're _Wonderboy996?"

Seto's smirk came full force.

"This should work out just fine."

* * *

**END.**

* * *

_**Don't know what I'm talking about when I mention Wonderboy996? Check out the 36**__**th**__** chapter of "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes," my spin-off one-shot collection. It's Mokuba's YouTube handle; I go into more detail about it in that chapter. Thought it would make a good throwback here.**_

_**Akiko/Kiko is a maid in "Cemetery Dance." In this story, she takes up a sort of…governess role. Like Jane Eyre, without the romance. If you understand that reference, then you might notice that the title of this chapter is a reference to that novel. For the uninitiated, "Jane Eyre" is an 18**__**th**__**-century novel by Charlotte Bronte; Jane Eyre, the titular character, becomes the governess (nanny/tutor) for Adele, the orphaned ward of Edward Rochester.**_

_**Mister Rochester, aside from being my favorite character in the novel, also bears a more-than-passing resemblance to a certain Mister Kaiba. Rich, bitter, blunt, angry, and lonely. If you think of Kiko as a modern-day Jane Eyre, you wouldn't be far off the mark.**_

_**I see her as an instrumental part of the Kaiba family dynamic, and beginning with this chapter, I will be exploring how that came to pass.**_

_**She will play a role in a later project that I have in the works, and I didn't want to spring her on you. So, stay tuned. We'll head back to the present day soon. This whole thing with Connor hasn't resolved itself, and I haven't forgotten.**_

_**See you next time.**_


	27. Tenets of Natural Selection

_**Tonight, as I edit this and prepare it for posting, it's about 10 PM on a Saturday. I'm in a room about a fourth of the size of the one I used to claim as my own, listening to the new Linkin Park album. I'm flat broke until the 1**__**st**__** of the month.**_

_**But before I sat down, I made dinner in my own kitchen, with groceries I paid for myself, sat down in my own living room, and watched a movie on my own TV. I haven't fully acclimated to this lifestyle, and I would have liked to have started on it about…oh, seven years ago. But, life throws issues at you. In my case, those issues included physical disability, general emotional complications, and three children.**_

_**This really doesn't have anything to do with the chapter I'm posting for you all tonight; it's just to say that my life is fundamentally different from what it's ever been. I'm starting to evolve as a person, I suppose you'd say.**_

_**I like to think that this story is also evolving because of it.**_

_**Let's see, shall we?**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

Two weeks passed in rather amiable routine, as Akiko grew accustomed to her new schedule. She woke at 6 AM, as usual, and started her shift at the Children's Home at 8. She headed to the Kaiba Estate at noon, and performed various odd-jobs until Mokuba came home. Her "shift" at the estate ended at 5.

It wasn't difficult taking up the position of a maid; cleaning the Kaiba Estate was as rigid, structured, and simple as cleaning the orphanage. Clinton Lanyon would give her an assignment or two when she walked through the door, and that was the end of it; she was not supervised. But it was no sham. Though he seemed nice enough, Clinton's standards were high, and he was _not _shy about letting her know that Mister Kaiba's were even higher.

"Don't get me wrong," he said. "Mister Ackerman's told us why you're here. And truth be told, thank God you are. So if something I've given you to do conflicts with your primary position, drop it immediately. You're here for Mokuba. But keep in mind that if you do questionable work, Mokuba _will _notice, and he'll wonder why Mister Kaiba isn't taking action."

"I understand," Akiko assured him. "I've handled cases…similar to this one. Stealth missions. I'll pull my weight, Mister Lanyon. But…since you've mentioned it, and I have you right here, would you mind if I asked you a question?"

"Shoot."

"Mister Kaiba and Mister Ackerman are obviously concerned, and I think I already see why. Obviously, you've noticed signs, too. Could you tell me what you've seen? How has his behavior changed since…the incident?"

Clinton chuckled. "Incident," he repeated. He grimaced. "Well, he's jumpy. Not like, 'oh, that loud noise startled me' jumpy. I mean 'feral dog in a bite trap' jumpy. If someone startles him, comes up behind him, touches him, makes some loud noise, anything like that, he'll get this look in his eyes where you…where you honestly think he's fully capable of ripping your throat out with his teeth."

The borderline horror on Akiko's face brought a nervous half-smirk to Clinton's face, and she thought he must be the sort of person who would giggle madly during a funeral; not out of disrespect, but pure discomfort.

"He's a sweet kid," Clinton said, "but he's had a hard life. Not to hear _him _tell it, but…he's seen things no one should ever see. Especially a kid. You know their history, don't you?"

Akiko frowned. "I know parts of it."

"His mother died a handful of hours after he was born; his father three years later. Godparents took them both in, but not for long. The going version is that they 'took care' of the boys until their inheritance—which wasn't much to look at—dried up. Then they got tossed to the state. The building where you work was _not _the one they lived in."

"That much, I know," Akiko said. "Mister Kaiba had it built a couple of years ago."

"Mm. Well, Danny-Boy and Special K—" here Akiko laughed "—did their best, but Mister Kaiba wasn't satisfied. Mokuba…well, he was four, going on five, by the time they left. So he didn't really have an opinion. Far as he was concerned, if his brother was with him, he could've taken a field trip to hell."

"Gozaburo Kaiba wasn't any better, was he?" Akiko guessed.

"No. Way I hear it, he was a slave-driver. Not because his standards were so high; the current Mister Kaiba, if anything, is _stricter _than his predecessor. But Gozaburo's idea of discipline…the steps he took to punish insubordination…well. Let's just say they weren't strictly legal."

"He abused them?"

"More like, he had other people abuse them for him. But I was talking about Mokuba. He was…pretty much ignored by everyone on staff, back in Gozaburo's time. The only people who took any interest in him were Mister Kaiba, and Diamun. Gozaburo's…majordomo, I guess you'd say. And _that _tug-of-war was one hell of a psychological square-dance."

"What…happened to Diamun?" Akiko dared to ask.

Clinton's eyes turned glassy. "Nobody knows, because nobody's dumb enough to ask. If that old demon's still alive, he's not in _this _country."

"Did he…hurt Mokuba?"

Clinton barked a painful sort of laugh. "No. First time Mister Kaiba saw a mark on the kid's hand, probably got it from a switch because he wasn't paying attention during lessons. The whole damn house staff got a lecture. Mister Kaiba was fourteen at the time, this was eight months or so before he took over, and he called everyone together. Gozaburo excluded, of course. He looked at everybody, dead-quiet for a good five minutes. I was still wet behind the ears at this point, mind, so I was pretty freaking terrified. So he says, I'll never forget it, he said:

"'It has recently come to my attention that some of you deem yourselves fit to discipline my brother. Some of you hold to the ancient delusion that age breeds authority, and that Mokuba must listen to your commands based solely on the virtue of what year you were born. At the least, this is the only conclusion to which I can come that would explain your collective stupidity. I am here today to shatter that illusion. Mokuba Kaiba is _mine _to discipline. If his conduct is unbecoming to this estate, it will be brought to _my _attention, and mine only. Not a single one of you has permission to touch, raise your voice, punish, or otherwise assume authority of any kind over him. Failure to recognize this will result in immediate termination, no questions asked, no excuses tolerated.'

"Then, some smart-ass, he pops off with, 'Termination of our positions, or termination of our lives?' Mister Kaiba stares at him for a while, then just turns around and walks out. Nobody ever tried to punish Mokuba again after that. Nobody wanted to test the wrath of a Kaiba, and nobody was stupid enough to bank on Gozaburo's protection. Not even Diamun."

Akiko was frowning. "Mister Kaiba seems to have a rather violent temper."

"He did, when he was that age. He's cooled off since then. For the most part, anyway. It's still a bad idea to cross him. But anyway, the whole point is, Mokuba hasn't had the most well-adjusted time of things. The only authority figure he trusts implicitly, and follows without question, is Mister Kaiba. And most of the time, that's more than enough for him. He trusts his brother's word, and in his brother's protection. You could give him a team of hand-picked active-duty Marines as bodyguards, he'd still want his Niisama."

This caused the slightest of smiles to cross Akiko's face. "Niisama. Wonder where he picked that up." The frown came back; she was all business again. "I've seen him before. Talk shows and commercials and such. He's usually confident. Self-assured. Happy."

"Mm-hm. Sure is. It's no act, either. Sergeant Sunshine, some of us call him that. But, ah…not so much lately. Which is why Mister Kaiba brought you on, I'm guessing. I think the kid's just taken one too many hits to the chin, and now he needs some help getting back up. You can do that, right?"

"I can."

Clinton grinned. "Confident. Cocky, one might say. You'll fit right in around here. But, I've got a few things I have to finish up, so I'm gonna head out. You know what to do, newbie."

Akiko nodded, thinking that this mansion was the most mystifying mix of heartwarming and terrifying she had ever experienced. Unless, of course, she counted her own childhood home. Her countenance darkened.

Clinton was walking away, but he turned back to look at her. "By the way. First day, you called him 'Seto-sama.' Nice touch. Traditional. Run with that. Leave the 'Mister Kaibas' to boring old has-beens like me."

He winked.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

"Is this real?"

Roland Ackerman was like, and yet unlike, Clinton Lanyon in too many ways to properly articulate. Where Clinton was casual and upbeat, Roland was somber. Where Clinton was approachable, Roland was reserved. Yet she found that they both seemed to respond to the same…type of conversation. They were blunt, direct, alpha types. Yet their deference to Seto Kaiba was another trait they shared; perhaps because he was a stiff breeze short of a drill sergeant, the man inspired intense, loyal obedience in people who would otherwise have been at each other's throats.

Roland's lips twitched in the ghost of a smirk. "Obviously not. It's an April Fool's prank, Miss Yoshimi. Young Master Mokuba has a wide selection of novelty _Monopoly _sets in his closet if you'd like to cash it now."

The man's sense of humor was disarming, especially since his face never changed expression.

Akiko stared down at the paper in her hands, still unable to reconcile the symbols printed on it. Most cultures would have called it a paycheck, but then, most cultures paid reasonable wages for a part-time position that often amounted to dusting bookshelves.

Like, something in the _triple _digits.

"I…I can't accept this," Akiko said. "I'm an errand girl. I vacuum the hallways and wash dishes. I organize paperwork. On the off-chance that I actually talk to Mokuba, I make _Pokémon _jokes. This…this is too much. I can't—"

"Miss Yoshimi, Master Kaiba doesn't pay based on how busy his employees are. He pays based on how _productive _they are. The two are most certainly _not _interchangable. If you worked seventy hours a week at this estate, but the results did not match what Master Kaiba wanted, you would not be here. On the other side of the coin, if you manage to achieve what Master Kaiba wishes of you in _three _hours a week…well. There you have it. You work well, you follow instructions, and Young Master Mokuba smiles when he sees you. Things are progressing exactly as Master Kaiba hoped they would."

Akiko couldn't help but blush. "I…don't know what to say."

A long moment passed in awkward silence; then they turned toward the front door as it opened, and Mokuba came into the parlor. His backpack was half-off, and his over-shirt was only half-buttoned. He glanced up, saw the pair of adults in the room, and raised a curious eyebrow. "Hi," he offered.

"Good afternoon," Roland replied with a bow of his head.

Mokuba saw what Akiko was holding, and he grinned. "Payday?" he asked, with a little giggle.

"Uh…"

Mokuba's grin reached his ears, and the giggle evolved into a laugh. He pulled his pack the rest of the way off. "I'm going to the dining room." He grimaced. "Stupid math."

Finally, something she could understand. Akiko leapt at the chance to regain her equilibrium: "I'll make up a little something for us to snack on, and you can regale me with how useless fractions are." She smiled, and winked. "I might even get through to you this time."

Mokuba laughed again. "'Kay." And he was off.

When Akiko glanced back at Roland, he was giving her a knowing look.

"Results, Miss Yoshimi," he said. "He pays for results."

* * *

**3.**

* * *

Mokuba wasn't sure what caused the…change in him. The return to his old self. Was it the woman who insisted that he call her Kiko, because her full name made her feel old? Was it the fact that Seto seemed more at ease these days, more open and more amicable than usual?

He knew what was going on. Seto hadn't hired Yoshimi Akiko to play intern, though she took to the role without complaint, and would have fooled pretty much any other kid; Seto had hired her to keep an eye on…things. Seto was worried, and he'd gone about fixing the situation with his usual tact.

Well…_usual _wasn't the right word.

But Mokuba knew his brother's handiwork when he saw it. He'd taken a look at a digital copy of Akiko's résumé on Kaiba-Corp's servers one day, a document Seto had made no effort whatsoever to hide. She was a social worker under Big Kristine; there was no shortage of traumatized kids at the Children's Home. Of course he would look for a solution there.

Part of Mokuba _wanted _to be offended, but he couldn't muster enough pessimism. Akiko was smart, patient, and probably the nicest person Seto had ever hired. And he would have been a boldfaced liar if he pled ignorance to the fact that she was stunningly pretty.

Someone else might have cried foul, gone up to Seto and said, "I'm not a baby anymore. I don't need an adult breathing down my neck all the time. What am I, four?" But Mokuba wasn't that sort of someone. Instead, he took a trip to Kaiba-Corp one day after school, waited for Roland to go into his brother's office—they were in on this together; they always were—and sauntered in himself.

"Hey."

Seto, leaning back in his chair, raised an eyebrow. "Hey, kid."

"I just wanted to let you know you don't need to wait for the other shoe to drop. I'm not gonna terrorize my new babysitter. I like her." He waited a beat and added, "I'm sorry for making you worry."

Pointedly ignoring the stunned guilt on Roland's face, Mokuba turned around and left for the break-room.

Halfway to the elevator, he heard his brother start to laugh.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Whether it was Akiko, Seto, both or neither, something made Mokuba step in the next time he happened across a group of older kids harassing Connor Brinkley.

Outside this time, in the courtyard at lunch. Connor was one of those kids who brought an actual lunchbox to school, and although it didn't have a cartoon character on it, it still made him seem even younger than he obviously was. For his part, Mokuba had started using plastic freezer bags. Seto claimed it was tacky, but Mokuba did it anyway. Rebellion for the sake of personal expression? Maybe.

He was holding his pack by the loop of fabric at the top, swinging it in a wide arc at his side, thinking that the day was going rather well. Then he saw Connor, with his bright red lunchbox and his bright red face, halfway to crying and trying to fade into the wall as a group of about four kids cornered him. Nobody said anything, because the hierarchy of the playground still held sway.

Mokuba had never been one to care about social tradition, and this time he remembered that.

"…Can't tell me, dressed all fancy like that, your mom don't give you an allowance." One boy flicked at the collar of Connor's polo shirt. "You're Grade-A suburban white boy, kiddo. Can't pull no poor act with us."

"You entered into this agreement, remember?" another boy put in, placing a not-exactly-friendly hand on Connor's shoulder. "How are we supposed to protect you from _bullies _without…restitution?"

Mokuba would have been lying if he'd said that a spasm of fear took hold of him at the idea of…doing what he would usually do, but he muscled it down and strode forward. Faces kept popping up in his head: Seto's, Akiko's, Joey's, Miss Lorwell's. A bunch of others.

He was a Kaiba. He was better than this.

Mokuba strode forward. "Hey, guys!" he called out. "Having a secret meeting?" He made a point to be as loud as possible. "Can I join? Do you guys have a secret handshake? Hey! Aren't we not s'posed to touch people without permission? You're so hardcore, touching younger boys like that. I don't know what those public service announcements are talking about. I think sexual harassment is _awesome!"_

He thrust out a hand toward the one nearest him, who looked like he might be the leader. "Mokuba Kaiba! Nice to meetcha!"

One of the others, standing near the back, whispered "…Kaiba…"

Mokuba gave a dazzling smile, like he was practicing for a photo shoot, and continued to hold out his hand. He heard someone else, someone who sounded suspiciously like Rebecca Hawkins, call out from the sidelines: "Oh, my god! That's _Mokuba Kaiba!"_

The reaction rippled through the entire courtyard, and pretty soon a veritable sea of eyes were watching Mokuba, Connor, and the restitution squad. Connor looked confused, but the bullies were so off-put that they looked like feral animals.

"I don't like bullies," Mokuba said, his voice suddenly low and ominous, his smile gone. "I don't like opportunists. But more than anything else…I don't like _liars. _So why don't you crawl under a rock, before I get angry?"

The boy to whom he directed the not-so-covert threat took a step forward, seeming to grow taller as he leveled an unreadable stare on the young Kaiba. "…What'd you say?"

Mokuba stared back, placidly. "I think I said _fuck off."_

"Do you knowwho I am, kid?"

"Nope. Sure don't. Which is kind of sad, since I know a lot of people in this city. You must not be very important. Now go away. Your stupid face is making me lose my appetite."

Laughter, slow and poisonous, began to radiate through the observers. The group of older boys seemed to finally notice that other people were watching, and that their deadliest enemy had begun to surface: disregard. Nobody was taken in by their act anymore. One turned a glance back at Connor, only to find that he—like nearly everyone else—was watching Mokuba, an awestruck little grin on his face.

Mokuba knew he'd won. He gave a jaunty little wave. "Bye, now."

They skulked away, defeated. They tried turning deadly glares back at the young Kaiba, who was no longer paying attention. He had turned to face Connor, who said, "…Are you…_crazy?"_

Mokuba shrugged. "Prob'ly. Connor, right? C'mon, let's find a table. I'm hungry."

* * *

**END.**

* * *

_**At this point, I really don't know what I originally planned for this event. I didn't know how Connor and Mokuba were actually going to meet. I spent a stupidly long time trying to work out the kinks, and it's still taken until about a week ago to finally hit on something. I think it fits with their characters. I won't deny that the bully thing is…easy. But then, small kids who are good at school get bullied. That's just…something that tends to happen.**_

_**So yeah, maybe it's cliché. I like to think that it's also believable, and relatable.**_

_**This will be the last chapter of this arc set in the past. Starting next time, we'll be fast-forwarding back into the "present" timeline. The rest of this season, so to speak, will be devoted to finishing up the Matt story.**_

_**My creative partner has been waiting a long, long time for this.**_

_**Hopefully, it will match up with her, and your, expectations.**_

**_See you then._**


	28. Back in the Saddle

_**Sometimes it feels like the more substantial chapters of this project are like two or three chapters of "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes" glued together and slipped beneath one title. Then again, maybe that's how it's always been, and I just haven't noticed until now.**_

_**In any case, as mentioned, this chapter returns us to the "present" timeline of the story. The flashbacks, after Heaven knows only how long, have reached their conclusion, and we return to the here and now.**_

_**Sort of. This story's still set about five years in the past. But we won't tell anyone about that, will we?**_

_**No. I didn't think so.**_

_**By the way, points for anyone who catches the reference to one of my earlier projects in this chapter. I just tossed it in there for fun.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

Mokuba Kaiba came home from school on November 2nd, 2007, expecting Akiko to greet him as he walked into the front parlor, as she'd been doing most every weekday for months. She didn't.

The young Kaiba idly wondered if maybe she had requested a day off. Maybe she was going to take a weekend trip with her boyfriend? Did she _have _a boyfriend? Maybe she was sick. Frowning, he almost took out his phone to call her. Then he realized how ridiculous that was, how paranoid that would seem, and decided against it.

He set up in the dining room and started on his homework. Mokuba was no stranger to being on his own. Even on days when the house was "full," there were enough rooms and halls and random passageways that he often _felt _alone. It had bothered him for a while, but he'd gotten used to it again. The quiet was peaceful. The solitude was bracing. It helped him focus.

It wasn't until he was long finished with his work, and had gone into his bedroom for a while to edit a PowerPoint presentation for an end-of-quarter project, that he started to wonder again. Checking the clock in one corner of his computer monitor, he saw that it was after five.

Mokuba frowned, and decided to go searching.

He checked his brother's office; nothing. He checked the game room, thinking maybe Seto had decided to use some of his minimal free time to scope out his latest competition (or maybe he was just hoping); nothing. He spent a good half an hour searching through random rooms, wondering where _anybody _might be, and it would have felt like a treasure hunt except that he could feel worry blossoming into panic in his chest.

He finally heard something somewhere on the eastern end of the house, and followed it without thinking what it was that he was hearing. He stepped onto the hardwood floor of his brother's gym, and let out a relieved sigh.

Seto was currently pummeling a punching bag into submission. The only sounds he made were short, sharp breaths and the occasional grunt of effort. His face was a picture in focused determination, his body a fine-tuned machine, and he looked to have been at it for quite some time, if the sweat that dampened his shirt was any indication.

Mokuba had rarely ever seen Seto like this, even though he knew his brother trained often. He was wearing loose track pants, leather training shoes, a sleeveless black t-shirt, and thick black gloves. It struck the younger Kaiba that he was one of a scant handful of people who actually knew what Seto looked like under the layers of obstinate cloth he usually wore. Here was a man in peak physical condition; his arms were more than well-toned, legitimately muscular, and although the rest of him was covered, Mokuba knew that his brother kept his entire body in equally rare form. Seto refused to let the sedentary nature of his job turn him into the flabby sack of disease and sluggishness that so many of his contemporaries seemed content to be.

Smart, strong, a master of martial arts _and _the human condition.

Seto Kaiba was Batman.

Mokuba watched his brother for a while, smiling unconsciously, then noticed Akiko standing in one corner of the room. She was holding a towel and standing near a jug of water. Mokuba wasn't an expert on reading faces, but he knew…appreciation when he saw it. His face reddened slightly, and he turned his gaze away.

"…Are you sure that's how you want to handle him, Seto-sama?" Akiko asked. "Forgive me, but that seems rather…cavalier."

"I don't think he deserves much better," Seto said, landing a particularly savage blow with his right fist.

"So, then, you aren't worried at all?"

"No."

"…I wish I had your confidence."

Seto eventually finished, and stepped over to Akiko without responding. She didn't seem to have expected a reply. She handed him the towel, which he used to wipe himself off, and then the jug of water. Seto took a long pull before turning and finally acknowledging the other half of his audience. "Do you need something?" he asked.

"Just wondering when you got it into your head to have a life outside of me," Mokuba replied smoothly, unable to deny his curiosity but deciding it wasn't prudent to indulge it for now. "Don't you both know by now that I'm the center of the universe?"

Seto smirked. "Of course. I forget myself." He bowed deeply. "Deepest apologies, my most gracious lord and host. Whatever was I thinking?"

Akiko followed her employer's lead, and bowed her head. "Forgive us," she intoned quietly, solemnly.

"Yes, yes, that will do," Mokuba said loftily. "Hey, Niisama? Rebecca comes home from Egypt tomorrow. I was thinking maybe we could meet her at the airport?"

Seto raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. "Fine."

"Rebecca?" Akiko asked keenly, and an amused smirk curved her lips. "Who's Rebecca? Hm?" She crossed her arms and eyed Mokuba suspiciously. "Have you been holding out on me?"

Mokuba's blush returned tenfold. "It's…it's not like that," he said. "She's a friend."

"Mm-hm. Sure, she is. I've got your number." She quirked an eyebrow at Seto. "They grow up fast these days."

"Mm," Seto offered, hanging his towel over one shoulder and heading for the doorway. As he passed Mokuba, he ruffled the boy's hair with one gloved hand.

Akiko picked up the jug of water and followed suit. "Be sure to dress sharp, Bocchan," she said. She'd started calling him that a while ago, and Mokuba found that it didn't bother him as much as the other pet names he'd been called in the past. He wasn't sure if it was because of the title itself, or because of the person using it. "Wouldn't want to disappoint _Rebecca, _now, would we?"

Mokuba pouted and said, loudly and with a lot more whine in his voice than he would have liked, "She's _not _my girlfriend!"

Akiko just laughed.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

Yugi had always paid close attention to the Kaibas. At first, it had been with disdain, same as for his other friends—though, certainly, it had never been quite as intense as theirs. Kaiba had never been one for good first impressions; he seemed to feed off of the disapproval of others. But eventually, sometime around the halfway mark of the Duelist Kingdom debacle, Yugi had started watching them simply out of interest.

He'd known that Mokuba and Rebecca Hawkins went to the same school, and that they'd started hanging around together. He could still remember the day when the two of them had come to the Turtle Game Shop, and Rebecca had scared him halfway to a heart attack, calling out _"Daaaarliiiiiiing!" _and making him drop about $800 worth of merchandise all across the floor.

Over the past couple of years, she seemed to have cooled off, and that was a good thing. She'd started—under her grandfather's guidance—funneling her tournament winnings into various avenues to set her future in order, and it had crossed Yugi's mind more than once that, financially, she was better off than her guardian—and she was only twelve.

It was no surprise, he thought, that she and Mokuba would hit it off. So it wasn't out of place to see Mokuba and his brother waiting at the gate with Yugi and his mother. For her part, Natsumi Mutou was a nervous wreck. She was concerned, and rightly so, for her father's health, and had been iffy at best on him going to _Egypt_ of all places at his age. But, Solomon was just as stubborn and obstinate as he'd ever been, and he'd gone.

The three travelers came into view with that kind of half-dazed euphoria that often comes at the end of a vacation, and didn't notice anyone at first. All three had nurtured some degree of a tan, though Solomon and Professor Hawkins had apparently been hell-bent on staying as pale as humanly possible; Yugi thought that if they'd gone somewhere cooler, they'd have come back transparent.

Solomon endured his daughter all but tackling him to the floor. Professor Hawkins assumed his usual, imperial air; he was an old soul, and always had a look about him that bespoke wisdom, experience, with just enough of a twinkle in his eye to suggest that he _didn't _spend his free time playing shuffleboard. He was old-fashioned, but his smiles were genuine.

Still, he had much more in common with the man in the $50,000 suit than he did with the man in overalls that he called his best friend.

Kaiba nodded curtly to the man; Professor Hawkins nodded back.

"Mokuba!"

A bundle of unbridled excitement, the polar opposite of her calm and reserved role model, Rebecca Hawkins barreled into the younger Kaiba brother, laughing as she did it. Mokuba hugged her back, somewhat awkwardly, and Yugi spied something suspiciously resembling tears in his eyes. He supposed that wasn't a surprise; Mokuba still wasn't used to having a social circle that didn't wear dress socks and ties at any given moment.

"Hi," Mokuba offered, not displeased but obviously embarrassed at the prolonged physical contact.

"It's so good to see you!" Rebecca cried, finally pulling back, and immediately launched into a narrative of her various exploits. Then Mokuba started talking about a new project Kaiba-Corp was working on, and their conversation dissolved into a series of segues and tangents that made no sense to anyone but the two of them.

Yeah. They were friends, all right. Yugi chuckled.

"Are you _quite done?" _Solomon was asking, as he extricated himself from Natsumi's arms. He glanced at Yugi.

"How'd it go?" Yugi asked dutifully.

"Well enough. We didn't find much, but it was nice to…ah…put on the old uniform." He winked at the professor, who nodded wistfully. "How's the store?" Solomon asked, his eyes suddenly blazing.

Yugi handed his grandfather a manila folder. "Take a look," he said.

"Oh, save that for later!" Natsumi said sharply, snatching the folder from her father's hands. "You know good and well Yugi did fine. Now come on. Let's get your luggage and go home. You took plenty of pictures, didn't you?"

Solomon rolled his eyes and fished a camera out of a side pocket. He handed it over.

As the small group began to gravitate toward baggage claim, Rebecca asked, "So how come _you're _so dolled up? On your way to a meeting?" She was obviously referring to the fact that Mokuba was dressed in a suit and tie, and that his hair was pulled back into a braid. Yugi hadn't consciously noticed this, and it crossed his mind that he'd grown so used to seeing both Kaibas dressed like that that he couldn't remember the days of jeans and sneakers, of leather boots and studded coats.

"Just left one, actually," Mokuba said, though he looked uncomfortable again.

Yugi saw that Kaiba was smirking now, even chuckling a little, and looking everywhere _but _his fidgeting brother.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

By the time Connor Brinkley had honestly gotten to know his new best friend, Rebecca Hawkins had already left on her trip. He'd seen her around, knew her name, and he'd even exchanged a handful of words with her, but all in all he knew just as little about her as he did any other girl at East Rivers. So when she invited him and Mokuba to sit with her at lunch one day, he wasn't sure what to think. He accepted the invitation, because it would have been rude not to, but that was pretty much the only reason.

Most of his meal was spent feeling petrified that he might say the wrong thing, surrounded as he was by a group of the most talkative girls he'd ever seen. Rebecca slipped in and out of the rush of conversation as easily as a fish through a current, and Mokuba seemed able to keep up well enough—mostly because they all fell into a hush whenever he spoke—but Connor was mostly silent, electing to engage in his second-favorite pastime of watching people.

"Who's your friend?" one of the girls asked Mokuba eventually, and Connor realized—to his horror—that they were batting their eyelashes at him. He let out a little _"eep!" _sound and stared down at the tattered remnants of his turkey sandwich. This resulted in a chorus of giggles that caused him to blush furiously.

"C'mon, guys," Rebecca said. "Leave him alone." Connor looked up at her. "Connor, isn't it? I've seen you around."

"Y-Yeah," Connor said, grateful. "You're…Rebecca Hawkins. The famous duelist."

"Oh, you've heard of me." Rebecca grinned. "Extra _Scrabble_ points for you. Do you play?"

"…Kind of. I mean, I'm just…you know. Getting started. Sort of. Mokuba taught me the rules."

"Fresh blood. I love it."

"He's playing modest," Mokuba said. "He's beaten me a few times."

"Only 'cuz you held back!" Mokuba contracted a mysterious case of deafness and didn't respond. "I'm not at your level. Nowhere close."

"I've never even placed in a tournament," Mokuba said. "Niisama's the duelist. Not me."

"Oh, _that _makes me feel better." It became rather obvious; now that he was actually talking _with _someone, instead of _at _someone, Connor had gained a certain level of confidence.

"Hey, you beat Joey once, over at the shop," Mokuba offered nonchalantly.

"I didn't win. _He _lost. He keeps using that _Time Magician _strategy all the time."

"And what did he tell you when you said that to _him?_ A win is a win. Don't sell yourself short."

Connor frowned, obviously unconvinced. "You keep _letting _me win. Both of you."

"Excuse me?" Mokuba looked (jokingly) affronted. "Do you _remember _who I live with? If he caught wind I was letting you win at _Magic & Wizards, _he'd flay me alive."

"Which is why you never tell him." Connor eyed his friend suspiciously. "And no, he wouldn't. He's wrapped around your finger. He'd lecture you for five minutes and then take you out for ice cream."

"He has a point," Rebecca put in, looking entirely too amused.

Mokuba pouted. "Whose side are you on? Niisama doesn't do that. Well…okay, he doesn't _always _do that. Don't look at me like that! He _doesn't."_

Rebecca caught Connor's attention and rolled her eyes.

Connor grinned.

There was a sparkle in Mokuba's eye that contrasted rather strikingly with the frown on his face.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

Seto was his brother's legal guardian; in every way that really counted, he was Mokuba's father. He had prided himself on this very fact for the past eleven years, and had fought tooth and nail for the privilege of it. To how many people had he been forced to prove himself capable of it? Mentally, physically, emotionally, legally? Nearly his every waking moment was spent constructing contingency plans for…whatever trouble in which Mokuba might find himself next.

Yet it had never struck him quite so pointedly just what it _meant _to be a parent than on the days when he sat with Enid and Leonard Brinkley, listening to Mokuba and Connor talk and laugh and break things in the next room, while he participated in "polite conversation."

Seto was not antisocial. He was _selectively _social. He knew better than most people how to conduct himself with others. He answered their questions frankly but tactfully, he chuckled in the appropriate places, and nobody but the most gifted of psychoanalysts—and Mokuba—would have been able to read past the pleasant expression on his face and understand the skull-rending boredom threatening to make his brain explode.

He had nothing against the Brinkleys. In point of fact, he rather liked them. They were nice enough, they were dedicated parents, they clearly loved each other. They were the perfect example of a healthy couple.

And they reminded Seto with nearly every statement precisely why he was a bachelor.

"Leo, _stop it!" _Enid slapped her husband, but she giggled like a girl of twelve as she did it. "I did _not _say that!"

"It was written on your face. Someone might as well have used a marker on your forehead."

For the first time, Seto thought he could relate to Matt Kerns, who was sitting on the opposite side of the couch as his aunt and uncle, looking like he wanted to swallow a bullet.

If Mokuba hadn't been otherwise preoccupied, he might have put a warning hand on his brother's leg and gave him _the look. _The one that said, under no uncertain terms: "Stop it; it's not their fault you hate things."

Seto had already mentally recited the periodic table twice by the time Mokuba burst into the room. His sparkling eyes seemed to scan each of them; he was like a superhero, bound and determined to erase negativity from the face of the earth.

Every muscle in Seto's body relaxed.

"Hi, Niisama," the black-haired boy offered, sitting himself next to his brother. Connor came out next, more slowly but no less bubbly.

"Don't let them stop you, Leo," Enid muttered snidely. "Please. Continue."

Connor gave his parents a searching look. Leonard said, "We were just talking about our last family camping trip," by way of an explanation.

Connor's face lit up. "The time Mom ran over that old lady's laundry?"

Seto had to bite his tongue to keep from rolling his eyes, thinking, _How can something be adorable and pathetic at the same time?_

Mokuba looked concerned now, and his eyes were locked on Seto's face.

He put one hand on Seto's leg.

Seto raised an eyebrow. "What?"

The smirk that rose on Mokuba's face was entirely too familiar for Seto's tastes. "Did you tell Mister and Missus Brinkley about the last time _we _went camping?"

"…I have no idea what you're talking about."

Connor blinked. "I can't picture that."

"What do you mean, you have—you _threw_ me in a _lake!"_

Seto's face remained deliberately oblivious. "It was a valuable life lesson."

"You auditioning to be the new host of _Man VS Wild _isn't a life lesson!"

"Wait, wait, wait," Connor said. "I have to hear this. _What _happened?"

Mokuba launched into the story, and Seto was only mildly surprised at how much _better_ he was at spinning a narrative—then again, he'd been trained for it. But his mind didn't register what his brother was saying.

Seto's mind was focused on Matt Kerns, even if his eyes weren't.

Focused on the sheer _ugliness _of the look he was leveling on Mokuba.

* * *

**END.**


	29. The Fear of God I

_**The last time I did a long-running arc for this project was a long time ago, with the "Shot in the Dark" storyline. There were a couple of connected chapters after that, but honestly, I'm not entirely sure that they count.**_

_**I've had this storyline in mind for a long time, and considering there were eleven chapters before "Shot in the Dark" began, it kind of fits that there would be eleven chapters before this one began, as well. It's almost like I planned it out.**_

_**Truth be told, though, I didn't.**_

_**Nonetheless, this chapter marks the beginning of the final section of this story arc, and will conclude a couple of conflicts that have been in the background of the story for a long time now.**_

_**Welcome to "The Opposite of a Good Idea."**_

* * *

**1.**

* * *

There was something about Matt Kerns's general disposition that made people not want to be around him, and nowhere was this truer than with his own family.

Unfortunately, that likely had a lot to do with why he'd turned out the way he had. He couldn't remember the last time he'd honestly interacted with either of his parents, and even if he could, it would have been an infinitely more difficult operation to remember the last time he'd _enjoyed_ doing it.

Matt Kerns didn't enjoy much of anything, to tell the truth. Probably, that was why he was so disagreeable. Popular theory had it that you can't love anyone else if you don't love yourself. And if you can't love anyone else, chances are it will show; and even the people who love you are only going to have so much patience with your shit.

And if you didn't even enjoy anything, you sure as fuck didn't _love_ anything.

He wandered random side-streets and alleys, because he quite literally had nothing better to do with his time. Perhaps if he had been a "better kid," he would have been at his aunt and uncle's house, doing dishes or laundry or playing a game with his cousin, or reading, or God only knew how many other things.

But Matt Kerns wasn't a better kid. He told himself constantly that he'd never _be_ a better kid, because better kids had no identity. Better kids were conformists, better kids were slaves, and he wasn't about to become a part of "the machine."

Like that damned Kaiba kid, that rich little boot-licking brat who bent over backwards for his pretentious asshole brother like it was his sworn and sacred duty. God, what a—

Fucking joke.

That's all it was. That's all..._any_ of it was. But when he tried to tell people that, when he tried to call people out on it, what did he get told? Be quiet, be obedient, just accept the way things are. Respect authority, bow to authority, concede to authority.

"You don't know what you're talking about," they told him. "You're just parroting a bunch of anti-establishment rhetoric that you got from that death metal crap you listen to."

That was why Matt didn't enjoy, didn't love, anything. It all painted a picture of which he wasn't a part, and would never _be_ a part.

Which was perhaps what made William Hunter and his Boys so...workable. What made them acceptable, even though they were just as rich, just as arrogant, and just as conformist as the Kaiba kid.

They were a part of the picture, but they didn't like it.

In the grand scheme of things, that was good enough for Matt Kerns.

He found that he could use that.

He could make his point with that.

He could enact...certain plans with that.

Matt reached back, rubbing the cold metal pressed against the small of his back as if for luck, and almost laughed.

* * *

**2.**

* * *

Joey Wheeler wasn't the most introspective guy in the world. He didn't make a habit of examining his own thoughts and figuring out his own beliefs like they were jigsaw puzzles. He knew what he knew, he felt what he felt, and he got along pretty well for all that.

He'd grown up on the streets, in a way that _wasn't_ a euphemism. He hadn't had much in the way of choices, considering the fact that he'd pretty constantly striven to escape the home where he'd grown up. He hadn't thought of that little niche carved into the ground floor of Bellview Apartments—right next to a fancy little "4" hung up on the outside wall—as home...pretty much since he was about ten years old.

Maybe it was earlier than that. He didn't really know anymore. It was all a haze. His parents' marriage had been fucked from the word go, and when he thought back (on those rare occasions that he bothered), he couldn't recall a single time that he'd seen Jackson Wayne Wheeler and Lianne Tyrell (she was most certainly _not_ a Wheeler anymore, thank you very much) smile when they were together. One or both of them had always been scowling or frowning or otherwise miserable.

When he was little, Joey had thought it was somehow his fault. He'd eventually come to realize that the truth was...exactly that. His birth had come as a surprise to his whirlwind-newlywed parents, and it had been the first step toward their downward spiral into reality.

So yeah, he'd spent as much time as humanly possible away from his home, because his home didn't really want him. His home _kept_ him, because that was the expected thing, but it didn't _want_ him. When he was little, he would take his baby sister out for walks; he'd go to the park with her, he'd go to the beach with her, he'd take her out every year to the annual Domino Corn Festival because...hey, corn.

And then...well. Yeah. Everything fell apart.

It was just a matter of course for Joey, which was why he didn't really like talking about it. Whenever Serenity brought up the subject of their parents—because she was the only one who _would_ anymore—Joey's brain went AWOL and he just kind of sat there with a blank look on his face and a keen restlessness running through the labyrinth of his veins.

Like today.

She was standing in his living room with her arms crossed and a scowl on her face that would have made Ma proud—Serenity had always been good at making Ma proud—like she was in the middle of giving him a lecture and it was his job to speak up and contribute now.

He didn't. He just stared blankly at her, making no pretense of actual interest, and waited. It was surprising to most people who knew him that Joey could be as patient as a statue when he needed to be. Right now, he felt like he needed to be patient, and so he was.

Serenity probably thought he was being obstinate.

Eventually, a good three minutes after the last time she'd said anything, a spasm of real anger passed over the girl's face and she snapped, "So that's it, then? That's all you're going to say?"

Joey just looked at her and said, "Yeah. That's all I'm gonna say. It's all I'm gonna do. This whole situation's done, far as I'm concerned. I dunno what else you were bankin' on, but...that's it for me."

"Joey! Our mother is in the hospital!"

"Yup. She sure is. And she's gonna get better. So good for her. Look, Ren, I did what you asked. I went to see 'er. I talked to 'er. I did my damnedest to keep things civil. You want more outta this, you talk to Ma. Ball's in her court now, kid."

Rage smoldered in Serenity's normally soft brown eyes, but it had nothing to catch on. Joey's gaze was cold and heartless, and that was perhaps the part of it that kept her calm...and confused. She said, slowly, "You couldn't be civil for _one _afternoon? You couldn't just…let it go? What happened between you two? What...changed?"

Joey shrugged. "Don't matter. Whatever we had, it broke. I get you're tryin' to fix it, but...there's nothing to fix."

"But _why?"_

"Don't have answers for you. You want answers, talk to Ma. I got nothin'."

"Joey!"

"Sorry, Ren. I'm done talkin' about this."

Joey knew it wasn't over; not for her. He made a very calculated decision to stand up and leave the house, and he wasn't surprised in the slightest when she didn't follow him immediately. It took her a long time to gather her thoughts together, and he was already halfway down the street when the door opened again. She called for him. Angry again. Then confused again. Then...pitiful.

He didn't stop. He didn't answer.

* * *

**3.**

* * *

Connor strolled idly, while Mokuba tightrope-walked along the corner of the sidewalk, basking in a quiet sort of companionship that he wasn't used to. He'd never been a social butterfly, and sometimes he still wondered how he'd gotten hold of a best friend in the first place.

Sometimes, he wondered if Mokuba played games with him, and slept over on weekends, because he...pitied him. Connor couldn't help but think he was some sort of social experiment, because Mokuba was rich. He could have his pick of friends from the upper echelon, so why settle on a jumpy, shy math nerd with barely enough social skills to stay invisible?

Then he thought about how Mokuba acted around most people, how he was one of the most honest, straightforward people Connor had ever met. Kaibas didn't lie. That was a rule. _The_ rule.

One time, Connor had actually asked the young vice-president about it. Mokuba had just looked at him and said, "Because you're not fake. When you tell me something, I know you mean it. Not true with a lot of people."

The normal kid answer would have been something like, "Because you're awesome" or "Because you're fun to hang out with" or "Because you're good at Checkers." Something about Mokuba's answer, totalitarian as it might have seemed on the surface, was comforting.

It made Connor feel like he'd earned something.

Sometimes, they didn't talk. They just walked, like they were doing now. Sometimes, they didn't _have_ to talk. That was something else that was strange. Most people Connor had tried to be friends with were always talking. Silence seemed offensive to them, and he was always expected to engage with them. Mokuba didn't expect this. He just did what felt right, and sometimes it felt right to keep quiet and just...drink in life.

That's how his dad put it, anyway.

Things had changed. Some things were better. Some...were worse. It had been a long time since Connor had really thought about the..._thing_ with his cousin. Matt had been pretty quiet lately, and he'd been doing what Seto said and left Mokuba alone when the black-haired boy came over. He would go out with his skateboard, or lock himself in the guest bedroom and read comic books, or...pretty much anything that kept him away from "the brats."

He wasn't asked to babysit anymore. Connor was grateful for that. It always went to Matt's head when he thought he was in charge, and for the first time in his life—yet again, thanks to Mokuba—Connor realized that yeah, maybe Matt was older, but Connor was smarter. And more mature.

And Seto had helped Connor realize that Matt was fake, too. He'd used to think that his older cousin was strong, and that it was a mistake to say no to him. Matt had once been able to bully Connor into doing pretty much anything. But then Seto had come along and shown Connor what real strength, and real confidence, looked like. Real strength didn't have to yell at people that it was strong, and real confidence didn't care what people thought of it.

He was starting to think of Matt the same way that Mokuba did: which was to say, he wasn't thinking of Matt much at all.

It was kind of liberating.

* * *

**4.**

* * *

"So you're sure about this, sir."

Seto leaned back in his chair and tented his hands in front of him. "I am."

"He'll need formal training."

"He'll also need oxygen. Not an issue."

Roland chuckled absently and shrugged. "I never thought I would see the day that you would be hiring Joseph Wheeler to do anything more delicate than sorting mail."

"I wouldn't hire Wheeler to sort mail," Seto muttered. "He'd have to know how to read first."

Roland laughed. "I assume you'll be offering him the position personally?"

"Yes."

"Do you intend to have him interviewed?"

"I trust you can handle the red tape, Roland."

"Of course, sir."

Seto leaned forward, stood up, and stepped over to a window. Staring down at the city below, Roland couldn't help but think he looked like a stock photograph for some slick and stylish men's magazine. He was standing at the top of the world, and had every right to feel like a god.

Yet Roland couldn't help but notice a certain aura of anxiety surrounding the man. He didn't bother asking Seto whether he was concerned about something, because Seto was always concerned about something.

"What made you decide that Mister Wheeler would make an effective bodyguard?" Roland asked eventually.

Seto turned to look over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. He seemed to consider this, then eventually said, "...He's the precise opposite of the sort of man I would normally hire."

"Do you figure that if you go against your instincts, he will be enough of a wild card to catch potential threats unaware?"

Seto shook his head. "Not at all. It's simply that I'm coming to realize that my instincts can be, and have been in the past, cataclysmically wrong."

* * *

**5.**

* * *

Scooter Rodriguez seemed to like him. Thought he looked...well, not _good,_ but right. He fit in. Not like his polo-shirt-wearin', lunch-box-swingin' bitch of a cousin.

William Hunter didn't like the idea of dealing with someone older than he was. He liked to have control over his people, and the hierarchy of age still held sway for this band of miscreant teenagers. Matthew Kerns would, by virtue of a couple fistfuls of extra months, eventually usurp him.

But, Hunter perked up when the new guy mentioned Mokuba Kaiba. Matthew had a kind of swagger that was too practiced to be natural, and it was obvious that he thought he was dealing with a bunch of _normal_ kids, because after a while, he just popped off with, "You guys want to help me with a...project?"

Hunter asked what kind of project, Mohawk?

Smirking almost proudly, Matthew said he was interested in proving the lie to...certain paradigms in Domino City. Hunter bristled at this initially, but Matthew only seemed interested in teaching Mokuba Kaiba a lesson in street dancing.

The rest of the Boys seemed somewhat nervous about the proposition. When word had gotten back to their parents and guardians about their last excursion, those few with real clout in the city—like Hunter's father—immediately commanded that they never, under _any_ circumstances, provoke the Kaiba family again.

"You're scared of Seto Kaiba?" Hunter had asked his father. "He's half your age."

"And what does it tell you about him that he has managed to claw his way up to the top of Domino's pyramid in spite of that?" Yonick Hunter had replied. "If you rock the boat with that family again, there won't be time enough on earth to chronicle the shit-storm that will rain down on you. And I don't intend to protect you. If you want to be that ungodly stupid, you're on your own."

And so far, that had worked. Hunter had looked into Seto Kaiba, and quickly realized that he was far out of his league. Sure, he was wealthy, and sure, he had some sway with certain people. But he wasn't stupid. He didn't intend to provoke the anger of a sociopathic trick-shot with more money than God.

Not...personally.

"...All right," Hunter had said, unable to resist the temptation of healing his wounded pride and pinning it on _this_ schmuck, "I'll bite. What're you thinking of doing?"

"Nothing fancy," Matthew said. "I'm a fan of the old-fashioned. Sometimes. I say we just...show him what happens when his so-called 'underlings' get tired of holding him up. I say we put the fear of God in him."

William Hunter's grin was flinty, and his eyes were sparkling.

Scooter was smirking, sending glances around at the others; there was some nervousness flittering around, but they each had the same idea.

They didn't see a new leader when they looked at Matthew Kerns.

They saw a scapegoat.

* * *

**END.**


End file.
